


Primum non nocere

by Eolewyn



Category: Charité | Charité at War (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Martin's POV, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of War, Mentions of past abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Verbal Abuse, World War II, between scenes, historical fiction - Freeform, mentions of amputations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 92,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eolewyn/pseuds/Eolewyn
Summary: Martin isn't quite sure what to make of the new medical student, Otto Marquardt, smiling sunshine at day and crying wreck at night. Otto however seems to have decided pretty instantly that they should be friends. They shouldn't, really. Martin has sworn to himself to never endanger anyone else again. In times like theirs, every gesture and every word can be dangerous - and Otto is not good at keeping silent.
Relationships: Otto Marquardt/Martin Schelling
Comments: 183
Kudos: 123





	1. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wer die deutsche Version sucht, die ist hier grade in Arbeit: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656089/chapters/67673152

Martin’s first impression of Otto Marquardt was basically worthless. He had seen him in the operating theater during Sauerbruch’s surgery performance, a young man in uniform amongst many others, and had forgotten about him within a moment. But he had recognized him upon the second impression.

“Marquardt. I’m here for my medical clerkship.” A bright smile, a handshake.

If not wary, Martin had been cautious. Soldiers who had just returned home from the front were usually not that blithe and carefree, flirting with the nurses unabashedly, making a name for themselves as the ward’s new sunshine. It was the sort of act he’d come to expect from a Nazi – patriotism, strength through joy, all that crap.

Then the newbie had been talking with Lohmann about the latter’s wound, and Martin had revised his opinion. Marquardt was not cautious enough for a Nazi, too open, too genial with a wounded comrade. There was no accusation towards Lohmann’s wound, no reproach.

He’d looked scared when Martin had pointed out the peril looming over Paul Lohmann. Those blue, laughing eyes had widened in fear. During their talk, he had looked around himself nervously, watching the passing doctors and nurses when they came close. Then the retreat when Martin had asked him to help Lohmann. “I hardly know him…”

Well, at least he wasn’t blind. He knew in what sort of world they lived, and he wanted to stay alive. Martin had nodded and kept it at that. It had been his third impression, and at least it was less strange, less out of place than the second.

And then there was the evening of the Waldhausens’ celebration. Martin had heard Christel telling the other nurses, beaming with joy, that Marquardt had invited her to join in. So, that evening, Martin didn’t have any neighbors around; it was a bit quieter than usual until the sobbing tore through the silence. The sound alarmed Martin – it had no business being here, at this time, on the surgical ward’s top floor.

He had just been about to take off his prosthesis and go to bed, but when his ears informed him that the sobbing was in the hallway, not in the flat next door, he fastened the straps on his leg again and hauled himself up with a quiet gasp – standing up was always a bit of a painful act.

Sparse light followed him to the hallway when he opened the door and was just enough to recognize the figure in uniform, Otto Marquardt, sitting on the floor with a red, blotchy face and crying uncontrollably. When Martin approached him, he was met with the stench of a whole evening of cognac. He tried to speak gently: “Hey.”

Otto looked up, vaguely in his direction. He had trouble focusing on Martin, and when he managed, his eyes were dull, reddened and swollen. As for Martin – he really _saw_ Otto for the first time. The ward’s sunshine was really just an act. What he really was touched Martin as much as it repelled him. It was too similar to his own pain. _Don’t remember, don’t ever remember_.

Not the dead, not the never-ending fear. Not the severed limbs – his leg, a bloody stump; _how does something that’s not there anymore hurt like that?_ Not the upwelling panic when he could hear the gunfire getting closer, not the nauseating question: _Will he kill me, or do I have to kill him?_ …God, yes, he understood the temptation to drink oneself stupid.

And Otto Marquardt – he was just a soldier who’d come home, like him. Not a Nazi, not an idiot, perhaps not even a coward. Just a broken young man. _Dammit_. Sympathy got the better of him. Martin took his arm and tried to pull him up. “Come on; you better get some sleep.”

Otto’s reply consisted of an undefined, whimpering noise, but he didn’t move, and without his cooperation, he was too heavy for Martin – he slumped back on the floor, and Martin staggered. With a curse, he gripped for Otto’s shoulder to catch himself. This time, Otto reacted; he took hold of Martin’s arm to support him.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled, but the end of his sentence drowned in another sob. “I’msosorry…”

Martin felt his stomach twisting. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That I couldn’t save Scholz, Krüger’s arm, Franke’s mind. That Baumann was shot to shreds, that Schmitt bled out while I tried to stitch him up. Theo. Goddammit, Theo, I’m so sorry. So sorry_.

Otto’s sobs devolved into a severe hiccup which, thankfully, yanked Martin out of his spiraling thoughts. “Come on,” he repeated and pulled on Otto’s arm again, a bit more insistent now, and after a moment, Otto moved and clumsily got to his feet.

Martin placed his arm around his shoulder and limped to the Waldhausens’ door with the weight hanging on him. Otto walked along obediently, although with his head hanging and his eyes drooping shut.

“You got a key?”

Otto only hummed in reply, but he seemed to have understood, groping for his pocket in an uncoordinated fumble.

Martin shoved his hand aside and fished out the key. But as he unlocked the door, he felt Otto sliding down slowly. “Hey, hey – don’t fall asleep!” he admonished him, shaking him perhaps a tad too vehemently, but if Otto crashed down here in the doorframe and tore Martin down with him, he might just break something.

Otto’s hand clasped his shoulder, and he unbent his knees. Martin seized him a bit more tightly, and there was this cursed, idiotic moment when he was aware of the warm body leaning on him, the sort-of half hug, the second heartbeat against his ribs. Felt nice. _Are you serious? How old are you, Schelling?_ Martin mentally whacked himself over the head and walked on. It just had been a very long time since anyone had touched him for other than medical reasons.

The Waldhausen flat had the same layout as his; only there was a door to another room in the right wall. But a bed stood in the same corner as in his place, and since it was a single bed, it had to be Otto’s. Martin maneuvered him there and dropped him none too gracefully on the mattress.

Otto’s arm fell limply from his shoulder; Martin briefly thought that he’d fallen asleep right that instant. But when he reached for the woolen blanket on the bed’s foot, it clicked faintly and the light over Otto’s bed was turned on. Otto let go of the switch and looked at Martin, his face tear-stained.

“You can’t sleep without light either, huh?” Martin didn’t get an answer and didn’t need one, anyway; he knew the gesture all too well. There were too many memories looming in the dark. There were _alarm sirens_ looming in the dark. He spread the blanket over Otto. “Good night.” As he took the key from the door and put it on the kitchen counter before leaving, Otto was silent, but when Martin pulled the door shut, he could see the blank stare to the ceiling. He looked lifeless – until his eyes filled with tears again.

Martin crawled into his room and cursed himself. He didn’t want to think about Otto’s trauma. His own memories were painful enough. Too many faces, too many names, too much blood.

 _I’m sorry_.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Otto said meekly to him the other day during their morning round. “I mean, about yesterday.”

Martin looked at him bewilderedly. Otto was pale and wincing at every noise; the previous evening obviously still ate away at him. “Don’t have to apologize. I’m not the one who’s hungover,” he noted, although as quietly as possible.

Otto smiled shakily and proceeded to stack bedpans onto the trolley. “I mean… thank you. I was kind of…” He searched for a word and couldn’t find one.

Martin sighed. “Yes. I know.” That was the worst about it: He really knew. “You shouldn’t make a habit of it,” he said nonetheless, although he felt like the worst sort of teacher giving a lecture.

Otto laughed. “Nobody’s becoming an alcoholic on ration stamps.” He was probably right about that.

“There are more than enough alternatives here at the hospital,” Martin noted cynically when they passed Paul Lohmann’s bed – Lohman was still sound asleep, in spite of the bustling activity around him, and Martin suspected that he’d been treating himself to some Pervitin again before going to sleep.

The implication made Otto grimace. “Never liked that sort of stuff, not even on the front.”

“Have you already covered your two years of basic duty?” Martin asked. He himself had come back ’41, although his probation was set up for five years – if he’d still have his leg, he’d still be out there. Occasionally, this was a trade he rather appreciated. Every time the bombings started and he had a protective roof above his head, for example.

“No, I have to go back after the exams,” Otto said so quietly that Martin barely understood him, although this time it was probably not because of the hangover. Ashamed to have steered the conversation to this subject, Martin shut up.

Otto did quite the opposite – now he began to talk. He talked about how much he liked the city, how different Berlin was from Oberallgäu, about their shift schedule, his lectures, the procedures on the ward he wasn’t quite familiar with yet. Martin realized quickly that he talked about everything that was not the war. He couldn’t blame him; everyone did what they had to do to hold onto their smile. And since Otto didn’t mind being interrupted occasionally to listen to explanations and instructions, it wasn’t a distraction from work.

Nurses Angelika and Christel were assisting in the OR, Nurse Anna was getting the laundry, and Head Nurse Elisabeth was at physiotherapy with Herrn Werth, a recent arm-amputee; as such, it was left to Martin to show Otto the ropes today. He pointed out the routine tasks at some of their patients, told him about the personal quirks of some doctors – Dr. Hansen for example couldn’t stand it if visitors were allowed to stay even a minute overtime on her watch – and put him up for all the work that was usually left to him and the nurses.

Otto was attentive and a diligent worker. Nothing seemed to bother him overmuch, neither collecting urine samples nor cleansing catheters. On the contrary; he seemed to enjoy the job, and Martin got a bit infected by his enthusiasm. When he’d come home two years ago and when the damn leg was finally up for walking and working, he had liked the change, too. Of course, crippled soldiers came here as well, but in comparison to a military sickbay, Charité held up rather well – the daily stress here felt more normal.

“I don’t know; I think getting cut up sounds pretty awful,” Veronika Kuhne just commented, their newest addition; she had come in this morning, and she was only thirteen years old. The upcoming surgery obviously made her nervous.

“Oh, an appendix gets overvalued,” Otto quipped while fastening the cannula on her arm. “I’ve gotten rid of mine a while ago, and I can live just fine without it.” He put up a deeply offended face. “And it never even writes for Christmas.”

Veronika laughed. “Well, but of course you as a soldier have been through worse,” she argued.

Otto looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you kidding? I was eight years old; I howled like a kicked dog because my mother couldn’t stay during the surgery.” He shoved the bed with the kid in it to the OR, and Martin walked along to open the doors and bring the infusion bottle.

“No need to worry,” Martin assured the girl. “Dr. Wagner is an expert; he’ll get the thing out of you in ten minutes time.”

Dr. Wagner stood at the OR’s door, waiting in his doctor’s coat, cap, mask and gloves – a ghostly white figure, but when Veronika anxiously looked up at him, Otto whispered to her: “Come on; show a veteran what bravery means!” And the girl smiled when the surgery nurses took over and shut the door behind her.

Martin glimpsed at his watch. It was almost one o’clock, and the head nurse was long back on the ward. “You come along for lunch?” he asked Otto without having thought about it, and when he realized what kind of question that was, Otto already beamed at him and said: “Sure!”

 _Idiot_ , Martin scolded himself. That was exactly the sort of situation he was supposed to avoid… but since he’d offered it, he had Otto follow him upstairs and to his flat. “Nice of you to cheer up the kid,” he said while warming up the vegetable stew of yesterday and having Otto set the table. “Perhaps they should have assigned you to the pediatric ward; you seem to have a knack for that.”

Otto smirked. “And be cooped up with my brother-in-law all day? He’s already getting sick of me because he and Anni can’t be alone with each other at home anymore.” He said it light-heartedly, but now that Martin knew he liked to hide behind a grin, he noticed that Otto’s smile looked like chiseled in stone and seemed somewhat sourly.

“You don’t get along with him?” he inquired.

“Just envy, I guess.” Otto shrugged and studied his spoon with way more attention than it warranted. “His conscription was suspended,” he added suddenly.

Four simple words, but they made Martin feel ill instantly. No wonder Otto was so bitter – fine Herr Doktor Waldhausen didn’t have to go to the front. No need for that. How very _nice_ for him.

“Don’t scorch the stuff.” Only when Otto’s words reached him, Martin realized that he’d frozen mid-move. He hastily stirred through the stew again and poured it into the bowls on the table, although he quickly turned away again to hide his frown. Whatever that was good for – it was obvious that Otto was just as upset as he was. But Martin was used to not showing such things as openly as… well, as Otto did.

“Do you want a coffee, too?” he asked in a tone that he hoped was casual.

Otto looked like someone in suffering. “Barley?”

Martin laughed at his grimace. “What else?”

In spite of his reservations, Otto did take a cup of coffee, and for the next few minutes, they shared an amicable silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery in the bowls. Martin noticed with a bit of amusement that Otto ate like a soldier – rapidly, chewing with a mechanical precision, with no sign telling if he even enjoyed it. Purpose-driven eating, so to speak. It had taken Martin a while to get out of this habit. On the other hand, Otto probably had to go to the auditorium after work and thus had cause to hurry. “Do you have lectures today?”

“Have to go three o’clock,” Otto confirmed. “Infectious children’s diseases with Bessau and then epilepsy diagnostics with de Crinis – one and a half hour of self-adulation to wrap up the day.”

It was probably not a good criterion to like someone, but a person with no sympathies for de Crinis was generally someone Martin had a few sympathies for. He wondered if he should ask Otto about Paul Lohmann again, but decided against it. When he’d tried the last time, Otto had reacted very cagily, and there was the undeniable fact that his sister worked for de Crinis. Another thing he couldn’t talk about very well.

“Do you listen in on the lectures?” Otto asked, starting to do the dishes without having been asked to. Martin took on toweling.

“Sometimes, if it fits with my shifts,” he said. After a moment, he added: “Although I’m not much for the psychiatry lectures.”

“Is that because of de Crinis or because of the subject?” Otto wanted to know. He grinned when he asked, but a spark in his eyes revealed actual interest. And Martin was not sure how to handle that.

The honest answer was: It was because of what that subject taught these days. _Dangerous. Don’t._ “I don’t have the basic knowledge for the advanced courses anyway.”

If Otto had noticed that he’d been evaded, he didn’t comment on it. He helped Martin tidy up the dishes; then it was back to work. When they stepped into the hallway, Otto called over: “Hey, Anni!” and the addressee who had just been about to open her door looked up.

Anni – Martin only knew her as Frau Waldhausen, and as such hardly beyond seeing and greeting. She was his neighbor, but they barely interacted in the hospital’s everyday business. Now that he saw the siblings side by side, he found they looked quite similar, although Anni had hazel eyes instead of blue ones like Otto. Those eyes wandered from Otto to Martin and then back again. For a moment, she looked insecure. “What are you doing here?”

“Lunch break. Martin invited me over,” Otto told her blithely.

Anni nodded toward Martin, polite but neutral. “Will you be at home for dinner, seven o’clock?” she asked her brother.

“More like half past seven. Want to match my transcripts with a few fellow students,” Otto replied.

“Now, off we go, Marquardt; break’s over,” Martin noted, and Otto followed him and waved Anni goodbye. She smiled noncommittally, but as she turned away, Martin noticed something about her that he had seen on Otto before: Her smile looked like chiseled in stone.


	2. Trial and Error

The next day, Anni Waldhausen marched into the surgical ward and appeared very content with herself and all the world. “I’ll need a wheelchair for Paul Lohmann; he’s expected at the psychiatry for an interview,” she announced. Martin felt like asking her for an authorization in written form, but the paper in her hand looked indeed like a referral, and Otto stood next to her looking surly. _Crap._

Lohmann was alarmed to have to go to the psychiatry, but he was smart enough not to make a fuss about it when Otto and Martin hoisted him out of bed and into the wheelchair. Dr. Sauerbruch, on the other hand, looked like an incoming thunderstorm when she rushed in, ready to confront Anni. Martin briefly hoped that she could veto, but that was when Anni smiled with a hint of saccharine spite and took her revenge for the recently lost battle of words.

“Professor de Crinis sends his best regards,” she said when she handed her paper to Dr. Sauerbruch who skimmed it hastily.

“Why is the Wehrmacht requesting a report now?” she demanded.

Martin gritted his teeth. If the Wehrmacht got their hands on Lohmann, he was lost. And if it was de Crinis who’d pushed the report through, it was because _Anni_ had wanted the case for her thesis! _Sorry, Marquardt, but your sister is a scheming, ruthless beast._ He looked to Otto who was about to turn the wheelchair to the door. Catching Martin’s glance, he clenched his jaw and lowered his head.

Anni strutted out, followed by her brother and Paul Lohmann. Martin hasted after Dr. Sauerbruch who stomped off the ward angrily. “Doctor – isn’t there anything you or the professor could do?”

Dr. Sauerbruch stalled and looked at him, her fury trickling away and leaving resignation. “We wanted to. But we can’t falsify the medical officer’s report – the shot was set-on.”

Martin frowned. “Perhaps Lohmann did it himself after all.” He noticed Dr. Sauerbruch’s disapproving look and added: “Well, I don’t mean he should hang for it.”

“I suppose the Wehrmacht disagrees,” Dr. Sauerbruch said with a sigh. “My husband can deal with de Crinis, but there isn’t much he can do against the Army Command.” She looked at the ward, shaking her head and abruptly changing the subject. “Has the Kuhne girl already gotten her midday antibiotic?”

“No, not yet,” Martin murmured. Apparently, the case was closed.

“See to it that she eats something. She was still sick this morning, but perhaps she can stomach a broth now.”

Dr. Sauerbruch left, and Martin got back to work, but Lohmann’s empty bed soured his mood, constantly reminding him of a comrade’s precarious situation. The feeling to be entirely incapable of doing _anything_ frustrated him to no end.

“Herr Schelling?” Martin looked up. It was Veronika who had spoken to him, sitting before an empty bowl – she had valiantly eaten her broth and seemed to keep it in. “Say, is Herr Marquardt not on the ward today?” she asked timidly.

“He’s over at the psychiatry right now; he’ll be back later,” he replied.

“Oh.” Veronika blushed a bit, and Martin saw how she smiled to herself. He wasn’t sure if he should roll his eyes or laugh.

* * *

He still got his chance to rub the unexpected admirer in Otto’s face – in the evening, Otto stood before his door, offering bread, butter and jam as compensation for the shared Sunday Stew. Martin hadn’t expected a visitor, but he found it was difficult to turn Otto away when he was in a good mood, and he was.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you – I did give de Crinis a statement for Lohmann,” he told proudly.

Martin stared at him. Anything else he’d been thinking about was forgotten. Why that all of a sudden? Otto walked over to the shelf to set the table, and Martin’s gaze followed him. It was supposed to be a questioning gaze, and it would have worked if not for Martin quietly acknowledging that Otto had a pretty backside. _Goddammit, Schelling!_ Quickly, Martin chose a point on the floor he could stare at instead. “I thought you don’t really know Lohmann?”

“I was always good at lying without blushing,” Otto said a tiny bit complacently as he came over with plates and the chopping board. “And if it keeps Lohmann from the court martial – good.”

“Let’s hope. You never know with de Crinis,” Martin warned him while pouring tea. If Otto relied on his optimism too much, he could still wind up with a bitter disappointment. “Perhaps he wants to make an example of Lohmann, and an execution for self-mutilation is something the whole force will know in no time.” Still, he couldn’t help being glad about Otto’s effort. Seemed he was more than just Anni Waldhausen’s retinue after all.

Otto’s thoughts seemed to follow a similar thread. “Why is Anni so positive about de Crinis?” he wanted to know.

“You’ll have to ask her that yourself,” Martin said as neutrally as possible – he really didn’t want to tell Otto what a low opinion he had of his sister’s behavior.

Otto dropped onto the second chair. “She’s never taken her little brother seriously,” he complained.

“Well, that’s a mistake,” Martin noted wryly.

Otto hadn’t missed the insinuation, but instead of being offended, he just played into it, saying in a tone like a petulant little boy: “As a punishment, she’ll have no jam!” With that, he grabbed the jar, pretending he just wanted to eat its content by the spoonful.

Martin laughed with him. Alright then; perhaps Otto’s immature jokes were a bit of a relief at times. While they ate and talked, Martin realized that he’d missed something like that – just someone’s company, talking about the important and the less important things. Otto asked about the retreat of the troops from Smolensk since he didn’t have a radio like Martin had, but he didn’t stick with the subject long enough for it to start feeling uneasy.

Instead, he asked about one of the ward’s junior doctors who had to go to the front soon, about their schedule changing, the supply situation and the patients. Martin told him about Veronika, eliciting a pained “Oh, for heaven’s sake” from him and a look as if he had a bad toothache. Then he was in a great hurry to talk Martin into taking care of the kid during her recuperation with help of the other nurses only so Otto could keep away from her. Martin still teased him a bit – until Otto pointed out that _he_ wasn’t the one who had to break a thirteen-year-old’s heart. Well, alright, he could shirk this one. On the upside, he was a graceful loser in Binokel and Rummy. Otto was easy to like.

And that was kind of the problem Martin was chewing on after Otto had left. He _liked_ Otto – and liking someone could only mean trouble for him. There was the probation, the weekly interrogations at the precinct. He really needed to be more careful…

A loud female voice from the neighbor flat startled him.

“If you have to give a false statement, _at least match it up with Lohmann_!” It was Anni Waldhausen.

Martin felt his stomach clenching onto itself.

If Otto replied, he did so very meekly. Anni went on, still infuriated: “He goes into length about how he was shot at short range during close combat, _and you come up with a long-distance shot_!” She added some more, although Martin didn’t understand the rest.

Shortly after, the next door clicked again, and someone hasted through the hallway. It sounded more like Otto than Anni. Martin fought the impulse to follow him, but the steps faded away within moments anyway. A bit later, he could see through the window how Otto rushed into the courtyard. He paced back and forth a few times, carding both hands through his hair. Eventually, he dropped onto one of the benches and hid his face in his hands. _Dammit._ He’d been so happy when he’d thought his statement a success. Now his reproaches to himself were visible from thirty meters away.

* * *

The next days passed in a tense atmosphere. Somehow, they seemed to wait all the time – for a response, for a confirmation of Lohmann being exonerated, for _something_. Otto didn’t let on how upset he’d been, and soon he acted just as happy-go-lucky as he always did. Martin started to believe that everything had gone over well.

Up to the morning when Otto came running into the operating theater while Martin was cleansing instruments. “Lohmann had an overdose; we have to do a gastric lavage!” he blurted out, pale and panicking.

Martin had a split second to wonder whose fault that was; then he had a bowl in his hand into which he threw a saline bottle, a syringe, a tube and a rubber cuff. “Get that bucket over there!” he ordered while seeking the charcoal tablets and Glauber’s salt.

And then he, Nurse Christel and Otto stood around Lohmann and kept repeating the same disgusting procedure – saline in, stomach contents out, over and over, until Lohmann suddenly awoke from his unconscious stupor and started retching. Christel quickly pulled the tube and cuff out of his mouth and held the bucket under him, not a second too early, and Martin had another split second to feel, relief this time. Lohmann was alive.

And he wouldn’t be grateful.

Because that hadn’t been a high; Martin knew that much when Nurse Christel took the empty Pervitin vial from the bedside table. There was his answer – it wasn’t Anni’s or de Crinis’ fault, and certainly not Otto’s; it was _his_ fault. “How’d he get that?” Christel wanted to know. Otto shrugged, and Martin wanted to throw up. _Why_ had he not rationed the Pervitin for Lohmann? Why had he left the entire vial here? Had he really thought that a newly crippled soldier who was threatened with persecution wasn’t at risk?

“We have to lock that stuff up more carefully,” Christel said while she took the bucket and the instruments. Martin nodded weakly. It wasn’t often that he felt like agreeing with her wholeheartedly.

She left, and Martin looked to Otto who took something from beneath Lohmann’s pillow. Seemed to be a letter. The envelope was stamped with the Wehrmacht cross. Otto read it to him. Summons for trial, undermining the military force, self-mutilation. Goddammit. They had failed all along the line. And Lohmann had been right about his suicide attempt. _We shouldn’t have saved him._ There was only death waiting at the end of such a trial, and until then… Martin shut his eyes. He didn’t want to remember. The interrogations, the threats, the degradations. _I’m sorry._

“Anni said…” Martin opened his eyes again when he heard Otto speaking, but the sentence wasn’t ended. Worriedly, Martin looked at his colleague. He was still pale, but his dismay had turned into rage. “She said de Crinis wouldn’t…” he croaked. Then he turned on his heel and marched to the door.

Martin followed him and quickly caught his arm. “Marquardt – _Otto_! Pull yourself together!” This was _not_ a good time to lose one’s nerve. Intervening had been risky to begin with, and showing open anger against the Army Command would cost a soldier his neck.

Otto tore his arm free. “I have to talk to Anni; I’ll be back later,” he snapped and stormed out, and Martin was left behind with his guilt and his concerns.

* * *

“Herr Lohmann is currently recovering from a severe poisoning!” Martin protested a few hours later when two Wehrmacht officers stood at the ward to arrest Paul Lohmann.

One of them raised an eyebrow. “What poisoning? Isn’t he here for an amputation and fitting of a prosthesis?”

Nurse Christel replied promptly: “Herr Lohmann ingested an overdose of Pervitin, probably with suicidal intent.”

Martin glared at her, which Christel answered with a look of smug self-righteousness. _Forget about confidentiality, I guess._

“If we have to take it that Soldier Lohmann tried to evade his trial by committing suicide, detention is all the more urgently required,” the higher-ranked officer noted coolly.

“No patient is discharged without a ward doctor’s attestation,” Martin insisted. The officer rolled his eyes but beckoned him to go and get someone. Martin gave Christel a dirty look; he wasn’t about to leave Lohmann alone with her and both of her dear comrades. Christel glared back in kind, but she did go eventually.

Unfortunately, when she returned it was not with one of the Sauerbruchs but with Dr. Wagner, accompanied by Veronika and her father, the latter of whom he gave the girl’s discharge document. Dr. Wagner had at no point been on Lohmann’s case, and now he couldn’t do much but look puzzled upon being handed the arrest warrant. After a brief discussion, he gave way and agreed to sign off Lohmann’s discharge. “Herr Schelling, please help him get dressed and bring him out, will you?” he said and seemed kind of absent-minded.

Martin swallowed a flood of curses. _That’s it._

Dr. Wagner failed to see his anger; he saw the Kuhnes off. “Goodbye, Herr Kuhne – and best wishes to you of course, Veronika,” with that, he shook both their hands.

Veronika blushed fiercely and stammered: “Oh, I – I wanted to say goodbye to Herrn Marquardt.” Her father frowned.

So did Dr. Wagner. “Where _is_ Marquardt?”

“Lecture,” Martin snarled crankily, and Veronika looked disappointed. He had actually no idea where the hell Otto was; even if he’d wanted to give his sister what for, that hardly could take that long.

As ordered, he helped Lohmann get dressed, although the latter was still somewhat dazed, and Martin’s attempt to relieve at least his dehydration was paid back by Lohmann vomiting on his shoes. Oh, whatever. Not like the day could get any worse. Lohmann whimpered miserably when Martin got him into the wheelchair, half aware that he’d be brought like a lamb to the slaughter. Martin wanted to say something comforting, but he couldn’t think of anything.

Outside the house, he and one of the officers hauled Lohmann into the car, and the poor guy passed him a haunted, depressed look before the door was shut between them. In a few weeks at most, he’d be dead.

A loud bang sounded somewhere in the city and made Martin wince. The officer next to him looked uneasy. “There was no alarm!”

Martin waited for a moment and shook his head. “That was just one. Probably some poor idiot blowing up a dud.” Said poor idiot would probably wind up at Charité soon. With a heavy heart, Martin turned away from Lohmann and returned to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't make up Sunday Stew; that was a real thing to help with the fat and meat rationing. Was even considered a patriotic thing.


	3. The Dead and Living of Stalingrad

Martin soon came to regret his bleak prediction because the poor idiot turned out to be a little boy who had to have a whole collection of splinters removed from his lungs in an emergency surgery by Professor Sauerbruch. Their patient Herr Fischer had been brought in with a damaged lung, too, but he was a soldier. To see the same injury on a child was just gruesome.

After the surgery, Otto came out of the operating theater alongside his fellow students and joined Martin in the post-op care for Emil, the boy. He didn’t say where he’d been, and Martin didn’t ask – he’d noticed how miserable Otto looked. Still, he went back to work, putting up an infusion for Emil and checking his respiration.

Neither of them said a word about Lohmann.

Martin looked through the boy’s clothes – those still usable would be taken to the laundry by Nurse Laura later. But the jacket was pretty much ruined, cut open for the surgery and frayed from the shrapnel splinters. The pockets were still intact, and Martin retrieved an undamaged sheet of paper from them and unfolded it.

The shock made him feel cold all of a sudden. _“Manifesto of the Munich students,”_ it said. _“This is the text of a German leaflet of which a copy has reached England. Students of the University of Munich wrote and distributed it in February. For this, six of them were executed…”_ And the reason was quite obvious.

 _“The German people stands aghast before the destruction of the men of Stalingrad. 330,000 German men have been irresponsibly and uselessly hounded to their death by the brilliant strategy of the World-War-Corporal. Führer, we thank you! Students, our people is in ferment. Are we going to continue to entrust an amateur with the fate of our Armies? Are we going to sacrifice the remainder of German youth to the lowest power instincts of a Party clique?”_ The text was full of anger, an open cry for resistance. Where had the poor kid picked that up? It had to have been overlooked after the last British attack…

“What’s this?” Without permission, Christel snatched the leaflet from his hand. _She’s not only a NS functionary, she’s also got bad manners_ , Martin thought spitefully, but he didn’t get much satisfaction out of the thought because Christel was already skimming through the inflammatory pamphlet. “I have to report that.”

 _For heaven’s sake!_ “The boy has no idea what that even means,” he murmured. “The Brits dropped thousands of those on the city.”

“Most important thing is that he survived and will recover,” Otto said from Emil’s bedside.

“Exactly,” Martin agreed, glad that at least Otto didn’t enjoy the idea of having a child arrested for mass instigation.

Christel hesitated for a moment, but then she said: “Still.”

Before she could go with the leaflet, Martin had already grabbed it and tore it to pieces. _Not again._ Lohmann had been bad enough, but two innocents betrayed and sold out in one day – that was too much. He turned back to Christel defiantly, and she gave him an ugly look.

“I’ll have to report _you_ , then!” she hissed.

Martin grinned bitterly. “Finally a treat for your warning files, huh?” With that, he left her standing there, shoving the paper scraps into his pocket as he walked off. _Let her._ Would almost be a relief to get interrogated about the cover-up of mass-instigating ideas for a change. There were worse things – much worse things that would bring him to Sachsenhausen in a heartbeat.

He worked taciturnly for the rest of his shift, nourishing his grudge against Christel in particular and against the NS apparatus in general. He was just wondering idly how Christel wanted to prove a thing if he went and burned the paper scraps – then it was her word against his – but that was when Otto came across him and Martin was a bit blindsided: Their argument had taken place before an eye-witness.

But Otto told him with newfound mirth: “No entry in the warning files today!”

It took Martin a moment to grasp that Otto did indeed mean it. “How’d you do that?” he asked perplexedly.

Otto opened his mouth to reply, but that was when Professor Sauerbruch raised his voice. “Listen for a moment, all of you!” His order sounded throughout the ward, and all nurses and doctors put their current activity on hold to pay the boss his due attention. He stood in the middle of the hallway accompanied by his wife and a tall man in a doctor’s coat and glasses.

Otto leaned a bit closer to Martin and said quickly: “Still got a lecture today; can I come by tomorrow?”

Martin nodded hastily although he’d preferred to talk to Otto rather now than later. Where had he been all the time? How had he gotten him out of Christel’s claws? But fine, it had to wait until tomorrow. Perhaps Martin could use the opportunity to show him the pamphlet. What would Otto say to it? After all, they had two Stalingrad survivors on their ward, Seitz and Gräfner, and Otto talked to both of them regularly.

Sauerbruch interrupted Martin’s thoughts. “Alright, before you all run off – this is Professor Doctor Jung from Strasbourg, our newest addition,” he pointed to the tall man at his right hand, “and he’s holding the rank of a senior doctor. So, I want all of you to behave well and stick to his instructions. Got it?”

There were nods all around, those of Dr. Wagner and Dr. Hansen with a grain of salt. Both of them had been working on the surgical ward for years, and getting a foreign, conscripted laborer as their superior didn’t exactly thrill them. But of course they complied with Sauerbruch’s orders. “Wagner, you’ll assist him tomorrow. Marquardt, you’ll stand in for one of the OR nurses. See to it that you’ll learn a thing or two.”

Otto looked a bit startled, but he nodded.

“First time an active part in the OR?” Martin asked him quietly. Otto nodded again, a bit more hesitantly, and Martin gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ll manage. Just don’t forget the instruments’ names.”

Otto rolled his eyes on that, but he still seemed grateful for the encouragement. When Sauerbruch was done with his announcement, he left to get his writing things and join his fellow students, and Martin looked after him, musing: How’d he managed, after years of successfully avoiding just that, to make a friend despite knowing better?

* * *

As agreed, Otto stood before his door the next evening, and seeing him made Martin feel a bit more at ease, although the day had been another unpleasant one. Otto told how he’d wrapped Christel around his little finger with his charms, although he didn’t seem to look forward to spending an evening with her.

He’d also brought his sparse beer ration to share it with Martin, only Martin was a bit too distracted to really appreciate it – meanwhile, he’d had some time to reassemble the pamphlet and read all of it. Here, in his own four walls and without a Nurse Christel peering over his shoulder, he could admit that he agreed with the text way more than was legal.

 _“In the name of German youth we demand restitution by Adolf Hitler’s state of our personal freedom, the most precious treasure we have, out of which he has swindled us in the most miserable way.”_ If it was a crime to ask for personal freedom, and it was, one should think every German would have noticed that something went very, very wrong in their country.

Martin forced himself to get attention back to the talk with Otto. He took off his glasses to keep himself from reading compulsively and lit a cigarette. “What was going on yesterday? You looked like chewed and spat out when you came back to the ward,” he said bluntly.

“I wanted to talk to Anni about Lohmann,” Otto explained, and Martin frowned blackly at the leaflet which he couldn’t read anymore now that the words appeared blurred to him. Right, Otto didn’t know the most recent news yet.

“Actually, I just yelled at her,” Otto went on. “And then she went into labor right there in the auditorium. And _then_ it went all downhill because she started bleeding.”

“Oh, dammit!” Martin cussed spontaneously. No wonder it had taken Otto so long to come back at all.

Now he shrugged. “I mean, she’s alright now, and so is the baby, but… the nurse said she’d had a _placenta praevia_ and bled a lot. I was scared for a while there, and Artur was angry with me because we’d had that argument before.” It was Otto’s turn to frown. He fumbled with a little pendant he wore on a necklace, a golden cross with a simple line engraving. “Anni looked so weary when they brought her out of the delivery room,” he said quietly.

Martin passed him a scrutinizing look. “Are you angry at yourself now?”

Otto shrugged again. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I thought she’d settled the Lohmann situation. But I didn’t mean for her to have… oh, whatever.” He dodged Martin’s glance by walking over to the shelf and rummaging through the dishes unnecessarily.

“It’s hardly your fault,” Martin noted.

“No, but I still feel… like shit,” Otto admitted.

Martin didn’t think Otto had to blame himself for Anni’s difficult childbirth, but then, he didn’t have siblings – and the relationship between Anni and Otto seemed complicated. Loving, but also strife-ridden, with a lot of potential for betrayed trust, if he’d read Otto’s distraught expression upon Lohmann’s summons right. And Martin was not exactly in the place to give Otto advice on that. What kind of advice would that be? _“Your sister is the same sort of person Christel is; better keep away from her”_? Certainly not.

“You said, she and the baby are fine now, after all the trouble?” he asked instead. “What’s it, anyway?”

That seemed to cheer Otto up a bit. “A girl,” he told him, beaming with joy, and came back to the table with two glasses. “Looks like Anni, just small and red. But she yells just like her.”

Well, that was at least something. “Congratulations, uncle,” Martin said although he realized afterwards how mechanically it had sounded because Otto grinned about his lack of enthusiasm. Martin took his propped-up arm off the table – he’d hardly noticed that he had been shadowing the leaflet with his hand, but that kind of precaution had become a second nature to him.

“Ah, the _corpus delicti_ ,” Otto said. “And for that, I have to play the martyr and go to the movies with Nurse Christel.”

He was offhand about it, like it didn’t mean much to him, but he had to know as well as Martin that the danger for him and the boy had been quite serious. “Read it,” Martin prompted him and stepped away from the table.

Otto took his seat and read the first paragraph. When he reached the note about the executed students, he fell silent.

“They’re asking how long we want to keep silent as Hitler sacrifices the German youth,” Martin summarized the next bit of text. And then he took a deep breath to steel himself and added his own insolence to that of the pamphlet. “I think they’re absolutely right. Lohmann has just been sentenced to death for undermining the military force. One of his unit is on the internal ward; he told me.”

It had not been a joyful conversation. The man had been brought in with a dysentery and about to slip off into a happy Oxycodone lethargy after he’d been cringing with abdominal cramps for hours. That was why Martin had been there in the first place; the internal ward had a shortage of analgesics and would only get another supply by the end of the week, and Martin had been assigned to bring them some of theirs and help with the distribution. He had given his agonized comrade the tablets and kept an eye on him while he’d waited for the effect to kick in.

“Better than Pervitin,” the man had commented.

The reminder had been like a punch in the gut, and Martin had been needlessly rude. “Don’t get used to it; painkillers didn’t get Lohmann anywhere.”

He’d gotten a sharp look for that, and thought it was because of the undeserved snub. But instead, the soldier had asked: “You mean Paul Lohmann? 96th division, Regiment 283?”

Martin had nodded. “He’s been on our ward until yesterday.” He hadn’t actually been in the mood to discuss the failure.

However, the other man had snorted a cheerless, rough laughter. “He’s getting around. Psychiatry, surgery, and now it’ll be pathology,” he’d mumbled half into the glass of water Martin had held to his mouth.

It shouldn’t have been painful – it didn’t come as a shock, after all. But it was so _unnecessary_ , so _pointless_. What was it good for? “He’ll be executed?”

“They passed the sentence in a summary trial,” the soldier had confirmed.

Now, Martin turned over to meet Otto’s horrified stare. “We should have let him die, Otto,” he said glumly. “Suicide is still better than being shamefully hanged on a meat hook.”

Otto muttered unhappily: “It’s my fault.”

 _We’re all at fault for something. Guilty of silence. Guilty of inaction._ Otto hadn’t been silent. “At least you’ve tried.”

Otto scoffed. “Yes, but apparently, I can’t do anything right.” With that, he took a cigarette case out of his pocket and lit a cigarette for himself. Martin was a bit surprised; he hadn’t seen him smoking so far. It was a bad habit for him, but for Otto, it seemed to be stress management.

“Thing is not that one can’t do anything _right_ ,” he said after a while. “Thing is, one can’t really _do_ anything.”

Otto sighed, but he didn’t say anything more while he read the pamphlet. After a couple minutes, he turned it over, scrap by scrap, to look at the reverse. Only his frown and that he all but crushed the cigarette between his fingers betrayed his agitation. _“The German name will remain forever dishonored if German youth does not at last arise, revenge and atone…”_

When he was done, he looked up, and Martin shoved the scraps to a pile, put them in the ashtray and held his cigarette to it.

“What do you think, how many are there?” Otto asked while he watched the paper smolder, turn black and get reduced to ashes. “Who read this? And who…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. _Too dangerous. It’s nothing one can admit. Guilty, guilty, guilty of cowardice._ Martin shrugged. “Who agree? Many, I assume.” After all, they all knew about Stalingrad. They all had seen the frostbites, the typhus-ill, half-starved returnees. The resentment. There were many who wondered. “And they all want to stay alive.”

The embers had given up halfway through the paper scraps; so Martin lit a match and offered the rest of the _“Manifesto of the Munich students”_ to the fire.

Otto smiled weakly. “That was a call to German youth. I suppose that’s the choice we have: Be the youth that does the right thing, or grow old.”

Martin looked at Otto. Otto, who had made an ill-conceived false statement for Lohmann, who went for a rendezvous with a Nazi girl to hide a political leaflet, whose every emotion Martin could read on his face. “You won’t grow old,” he quipped in a bout of gallows humor.

Otto pulled a face. “Well, that was very nice for: _You’re an idiot, Marquardt_.”

* * *

In the morning, Martin was already given a reason to be glad that he’d disposed of his, or Emil’s, finding – they had an important visitor. “Reich Health Leader Conti is coming here!” Christel reported in excitement when she came into the nurses’ room.

Nurse Mathilde and Nurse Laura had been working on the patient files with him. Now they looked up. Martin kept his gaze on the paperwork. He had no inclination to meet Christel’s disparaging look, and if he snapped at her again, she might just get an idea to show the honored gentleman her warning files.

“Will he take a look at the patients?” Mathilde asked curiously. “De Crinis has already said the Stalingrad guys are actually cases for him.” After a short discussion, she followed Christel outside so they could look busy nearby and gawk for a bit. Laura didn’t join them.

She and Martin looked at the hallway through the windows of the nurses’ room, watching de Crinis pass by as he talked to a second man in uniform who looked kind of unpleasant in a quiet, inconspicuous way.

“Do you think he’ll want to refer Herrn Fischer?” Laura asked in a low voice.

Good question. Now that Fischer’s lung was in working order, he was left with another obvious problem: The tremor. Most of the time, he was fine, but it was hard to calm him when he had a fit. Laura had taken a shine to him, albeit not the romantic sort – she was a young girl who’d only just ended her nurse training whereas Herr Fischer was a veteran of fifty years. But the war had made her a half-orphan, and Martin assumed that the old man reminded her of her father. Now she looked wrought with worry, although, if she’d been asked, she probably would not have been able to say what exactly she feared. There was always just that vague, queasy dread.

Before Martin could tell her that Sauerbruch hadn’t allowed that so far and would keep preventing it, the boss himself already rushed in. He watched his two high-ranked colleagues walking down the hallway as he closed the door. “Patient files,” he demanded. “Fischer, Gräfner and Seitz will be rescheduled for ambulatory care instead of stationary.” Hastily, he scribbled the names onto the forms and signed them. “And if you have to bring them home yourselves; I don’t want this arrogant sleazebag to get a chance to say they’re permanent cases.”

Laura beamed at him and hurried out to prepare Herrn Fischer for leave.

Sauerbruch, still working out the discharge forms, looked after her, a bit puzzled. “What’s with her?”

“She’s got a soft spot for old men,” Martin quipped.

“Yes, my wife has that, too,” Sauerbruch noted wryly and handed Martin the documents. “You’ll take care of Seitz, and for Gräfner you can get…” He interrupted himself, searching his memory for someone trustworthy.

“Marquardt,” Martin suggested.

The professor frowned. “Are you sure? Waldhausen’s brother? I don’t want a snitch in the wrong place.”

“No. Marquardt is alright,” Martin affirmed, and he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing how much research goes into details hardly anyone will care about. Like, Oxycodone was pretty indiscrimnately in use in early 20th century Europe (that stuff is rather addictive, by the way), and making sure that Lohmann's unit is one that actually participated in the right battle, and which concentration camp was the closest to Berlin (KZ Sachsenhausen). And thanks to psywar.org where I found a full translation of the "Weiße Rose" leaflet: https://www.psywar.org/product_1943G039.php


	4. Sheltered

Martin’s shift was already over when the alarm went off.

The last days had been quiet; there’d been barely any news from the front, and life in Berlin was running its course – just long enough to give an illusion of peace.

But when Martin opened the window to air his room – by now, it was too cold to hang up the laundry outdoors to dry, and Martin’s working coats tended to smell like that awful chemical stuff that was used to remove stains of various body fluids from clothing – the familiar blare tore through the city.

Martin winced. He hated the damn air raid siren. But he’d learned to control the accompanying panic and went right on with business, locking the window again while glancing down to the courtyard where the unhurried afternoon business was replaced with a hectic rush.

A few of the nurses who had been drinking tea together quickly cleared the table. Otto, who’d sat on the front steps with a couple fellow students, their books on their knees and busy learning for their exams, jumped to his feet, threw his coat over and hasted back into the building. His fellow students tucked their books under their arms and set out for an inward part of the hospital area, the young man taking the girl’s hand offering some safety or comfort. They were probably working students, too, needed on their wards.

Martin was expected downstairs as well to help get the patients down to the air-raid shelter. He grabbed for the least smelly coat he had at hand and put it on, although it was still a bit damp, and left his room. The hallway was full of hustling doctors and nurses, everyone on their floor heading for the stairs.

Except for his newest neighbor, as Martin noticed, and when he went to look after Jung, he either hadn’t known about the alarm’s meaning or he’d been too absorbed in listening to his radio. Had to have been an enemy station judging from Jung’s startled look, and at least he’d had the presence of mind to use head phones, although he hadn’t locked the door. Martin took a moment to warn him of unwanted listeners before they went about distributing crutches, supporting patients who had difficulties with the stairs and getting blankets for everyone because they’d probably have to stay down there half the night. An experienced, organized sort of haste prevailed, like an anthill.

In the chaos, Martin saw Otto standing by Emil’s bed and talking to the boy. Dammit, what was taking him so long? When Martin came over, Otto turned to him with a pleading look. “Can’t we bring him downstairs somehow?”

Martin passed Emil a skeptical glance. The kid had been torn up badly; after the surgery, Sauerbruch had ordered to not let him sit or stand upright. “We don’t have a stretcher,” he reminded Otto.

Promptly, Emil argued: “But I don’t _want_ to stay here!”

Martin turned to him with a sympathetic frown. He hated playing the voice of reason here, all the more since Emil was probably traumatized already from his run-in with the shrapnel and was likely to panic when the bombs fell.

“Help me,” Otto said suddenly and ran to the wall where one pair of crutches was still left over. He came back with one of them – _of course_. It would have been of no use stabilizing an adult, but a small boy could be carried on it without straining the torso too much.

Emil grunted in pain when they lifted him onto the crutch, but he kept breathing steadily. Martin thought it was a good idea until they reached the stairs and were discovered by Professor Sauerbruch who all but tore them a new one. “Are you _insane_? Do you want the vascular sutures to rip? The boy has to stay in his bed!”

“No, I want to go downstairs!” Emil protested pitifully. “I want to go to the shelter!”

Sauerbruch looked at the ceiling for a moment, doubtlessly sending out a quick prayer for patience or, better yet, reason for all the idiots he had to deal with. Then he put up a stern expression for Emil who meanwhile had tears running down his cheeks. “Only children who don’t cry go down to the shelter,” he admonished him. “You’re a grown boy already, aren’t you?”

Emil nodded hastily, and Martin thought in a bout of gratefulness that the boss did have a heart of gold after all, but then Sauerbruch was already back to his thunderstorm look. “Handle him like a raw egg!” he snarled at Martin and Otto. “God have mercy on him if one of the sutures comes loose!”

Well. God’s mercy for Emil, and Sauerbruch’s rage for them.

At least they could put up a halfway comfortable bed for Emil in the shelter, and once he was out of immediate danger, the boy fell into a restless sleep. Otto distributed blankets with the nurses while Martin sat keeping watch over their protégé.

Finally, everything went quiet, the tense sort of silence, filled with whispered conversations, that had them all harking and hoping for another night, for the aircrafts to spare the hospital once again. Nurse Laura kept twining a rosary between her fingers, her lips moving incessantly.

Martin shifted his weight out of sheer restlessness, trying to stretch his leg as far as the limited space would allow. During the raids, the stump seemed to ache more than usual, but that was only his mind playing a trick on him. _Don’t remember_.

“Alright?” Otto asked softly, and Martin managed a mechanical nod in reply. Far away, faintly, he could hear a crashing noise that shook him to the core.

The heavy protection door fell shut, making known that now, nobody was entering or leaving anymore. The last had to have been Dr. Waldhausen who was just talking to the guard on duty and then stepped a bit further into the cellar and raised his voice. “Has anyone seen my wife? She’s not in the shelter of the gynaecology ward.”

He glanced at Otto who shook his head. “She’s not here,” he said just barely loud enough to be heard.

Dr. Waldhausen took the reply with a strained expression and turned away to talk to Sauerbruch who’d commented wryly that Frau Waldhausen was probably not out for a walk. Otto took a deep breath, a furrow appearing between his brows, and he reached for the little golden cross at his neck to fiddle about with it nervously.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine,” Martin said. “She’s probably been at the pediatric ward with the baby for a check-up and went to the shelter there.”

Otto nodded, but he didn’t look much calmer than before. Instead, he distracted himself by looking after Emil. The kid was still asleep, but he was pallid and breathing heavily.

Martin began to feel faintly guilty. _Screwed up yet again?_ “Perhaps he would’ve been better off upstairs.”

“He never would have stayed in bed,” Otto muttered and was probably right. “No matter what a fit Sauerbruch throws.”

Still, all went wrong that could go wrong. The suture came loose when they wanted to get Emil back on his makeshift stretcher, and as Martin connected him to the ventilator in the OR while Otto and Nurse Laura hurried to get the instruments ready, he was haunted by the same old question: _Would it have been better if we’d done nothing?_ But what if Emil had leapt out of his bed in fear to crawl into some hiding place – what would he have done to his lungs if they had left him alone?

While Dr. Sauerbruch and Dr. Jung began the surgery, Otto had to stay in the background. He looked unhappy and tense – he was not the type to do nothing. Dr. Jung hadn’t even ended his sentence about the needed blood transfusion when Otto already spoke up. “I’m a universal donor. Blood type O.”

And then there was the uneasy silence again, interrupted only by Dr. Jung’s and Dr. Sauerbruch’s occasional instructions to him and Laura. Otto watched everything quietly from his gurney, paying no attention to the cannula in his arm although he had sweat glinting on his brow. How had they made a habit of bungling something together and then attempting to fix it together?

“Bleeding stopped,” Dr. Jung said suddenly.

Martin felt a big weight lifting from his chest – and he wasn’t the only one; Laura, Dr. Sauerbruch and Dr. Jung all smiled, discernible even through the masks.

“Give another 100 ml,” Dr. Sauerbruch said as Laura handed her the suture. “That should be enough.”

“You’ll be free any moment now,” Martin promised to Otto, and Dr. Jung lauded: “ _Très courageux_.” And he was damn _right_ about it; it _had_ been very courageous, and Martin felt a wave of admiration for his friend and something else which he hadn’t known in a while and supposed was affection.

Otto grinned, blue eyes twinkling with relief and joy. “I’m a bit dehydrated. How about a beer?” he suggested.

His good mood was contagious, and Martin couldn’t bite back a jest. “You’ll just have it intravenously, huh?”

And Otto laughed, the sort of exuberant laughter one had when a lot of stress was let up at once. They’d made it! Thanks to Otto’s volunteering, because that was just how he was – incorrigibly impulsive and willing to give all of himself on a moment’s notice to help someone. Martin could have kissed him right then and there.

* * *

Meanwhile, it was going onto midnight, but they still sat on the front steps talking. Martin had fed Otto a cheese sandwich and three glasses of water and a few oatmeal cookies for good measure and carbohydrates before he’d given out the beer after all, although they consumed it the traditional way instead of IV.

It still didn’t take too long to get a bit tipsy – either because of the beer or due to the late hour and the endured stress. At any rate, they wound up laughing and talking way too loudly for nighttime. “Oh, that’s going to hurt Sauerbruch’s poor ego!” Otto just claimed with a chuckle. “Someone else touching his precious needlework!”

Martin acted indignant. “Oh, _really_ now! As if _anything_ could undermine the great Sauerbruch’s ego! He’s _so_ far above the matters of us common mortals; he’s…”

“Napoleon in a surgical coat,” Otto added, and Martin laughed his head off.

“Come on, don’t get mean,” he said in a valiant attempt to defend his boss. “Sauerbruch is a great guy.”

“I know. I like him a lot,” Otto replied. “And I’m frightened of him like hell.”

“Rightfully so!” Martin remarked gleefully, making Otto laugh in turn.

That was when Anni Waldhausen joined them, a coat above her hospital nightshirt and her baby in her arms. She looked tired, pale and with dark circles underlining her eyes, and perhaps that was why she sounded so grouchy when she asked: “What are you guys still up and about for?”

Otto looked up and beamed at his sister. “Anni! You’re alright!”

“Of course I am,” Anni said, sounding indifferent, but Martin could see her squeeze Otto’s shoulder for a second when she sat down on the stairs next to him. “Where’d you get stamps for beer?”

Otto didn’t seem to have paid attention, because he was leaning to the baby to caress her cheek. The kid – Karin, if Martin remembered correctly – made a gurgling sound and grabbed for Otto’s finger.

“Artur was looking for you, before the raid,” Otto said, although he still was busy cooing over Karin.

“I’ve just talked to him,” Anni replied while she inspected the dressing on Otto’s arm with a frown. “What happened?” she asked worriedly.

“We had an emergency surgery, and Otto was donating blood,” Martin said.

Anni passed him a glance that was less than impressed. “And you give him beer, after a blood donation?”

Martin blushed and felt like a first-grader berated by his teacher. “Just a little bit,” he murmured guiltily and took the not-quite-empty bottle away from Otto.

Otto acknowledged the confiscation with a disgruntled look. “I ate something before,” he defended himself before Anni. His argument kind of lacked its cut seeing as he was mumbling a little bit.

“Obviously not enough,” Anni chided him, tousling his hair. “Go to bed; you’ll have lectures tomorrow.”

Otto gave her a hand to help her stand up, but he griped: “Yes, mother.”

Anni marched up the stairs without giving him another glance. “Bite me,” she retorted. But the moment Otto turned his back to her, Martin witnessed Frau Doktor Waldhausen pull a real beauty of a face, with crossed eyes, stuck-out tongue, crimped nose and all.

Martin burst out laughing, and Otto looked after Anni perplexedly, but she marched into the building with a lofty air about her. Martin was glad about it – there’d been some quarrel between Otto and Anni because of Lohmann, and that they went about ragging each other now so light-heartedly seemed to be a good sign.

“Well, come on,” he said, tugging Otto’s sleeve. Otto braced his arm while he stood up, a casual, almost instinctive gesture. Strange how much they’d gotten used to each other.

“I shouldn’t have let you drink; she’s right about that,” Martin said in an attempt to steer his thoughts into the realm of sobriety.

Otto smiled. “Nice of you to worry, but it’s really not a habit of mine. The celebration was an exception, promise.” And then he stepped closer and pulled Martin into a hug, just like that.

Martin was too nonplussed to think of an appropriate reaction. _Don’t hug me, you idiot. That’s just trouble_. It only took a second, but it was such a sincerely affectionate thing to do that Martin just froze on the spot. He’d been watching himself closely for so long so he wouldn’t end up showing his feelings so openly. It had to be the alcohol… but no, Otto was always open like that. When he was angry, when he was sad. When he liked someone. Lying without blushing? Yes, perhaps. But when he didn’t lie, it was pretty obvious.

“Good night!” Otto said blithely for goodbye and walked upstairs without visible trouble; he really didn’t seem to be all that drunk. Martin on the other hand wondered how one bottle of beer had gotten to him like that. That confusing feeling when Otto had put his arms around him and held him close. That wish to nestle to him and keep his warmth for a moment longer. Oh.

 _Oh_.

 _Dammit, Schelling! Get it together!_ Angry at himself, he shook the thought off, went to his room and locked the door – he knew nothing could happen to him at Charité, but he felt safer when the room was locked up. He needed that safety to take off his prosthesis. The air was humid because of his still not dried-off laundry, and the biting smell of the detergent was still there, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to open the window. This wasn’t a prison cell; it was his home – he didn’t get shut in here, he could shut everyone else out.

Only today, it was hardly helping at all. Long after he’d crawled into his bed and watched the outline of the lampshade on the wall, he still couldn’t shake off that anxiety. The feeling of being watched by eyes that didn’t miss anything – _“just admit it.”_ The threat of interrogations – _the next probation check-up is two days from now_. Questions, false encouragements, intimidations. The demand for a confession. That Otto became important to him in a way he wasn’t allowed to be.

 _Nonsense_. He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said anything, and he wouldn’t, ever, because…

…Theo had pleaded with him: _“Say we haven’t done anything.”_ And the response had been: _“We have a witness statement confirming that his behavior toward you was violating public morality. The law does not specify a physical act as an offense.”_

He didn’t want to think of Theo. He didn’t want to think of Otto either, not like that, not like he’d had with Otto’s arms around him and his body up close. But his brooding thoughts kept hounding him, and fatigue loomed behind them, waiting to send him down into his nightmares. Martin kept fighting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually suspect Otto and Martin might not have a too high alcohol tolerance (blood donation aside, which, seriously, don't drink immediately after a blood loss - that's so not healthy). They've spent most of their adult lives under food ration laws, and Martin's vice of choice seem to be cigarettes.


	5. Little bit closer

Martin turned up the collar of his jacket, regretting his decision that he’d do fine for one cigarette break without a scarf – November had gotten cold, and the constant sleet didn’t make things better. It had to be even colder in Russia though; they got once again more and more soldiers with frostbites. Two years ago, Martin hadn’t thought he’d ever get used to witnessing an amputation, but necessity had turned it into normality.

The professor had been grouchy all morning because of that; Otto had actually been scheduled for the OR to assist Dr. Hansen with an amputation so Sauerbruch was free to take his time with his round, but the student company had been ordered to the caserne this morning. Now Otto just came around the corner, smoking a cigarette and wearing his uniform.

It was an unfamiliar view to behold – since that first minute impression, Martin had only ever seen him in civilian clothes. Other med students wore their uniforms beneath the coat, as did some doctors, but not Otto. Martin found that he didn’t like it all that much, but perhaps that was more due to his expression of cold, barely suppressed fury than to the clothing. A lack of amputations didn’t seem to have saved his day.

When he discovered Martin, he tried for a smile, but it wasn’t exactly a piece of art. He did join Martin immediately to get the laundry when asked, though, crumpling his cap and stuffing it into his jacket. It helped turning Fähnrich Marquardt back into Otto – _his_ Otto, Martin thought briefly and then repressed the thought.

“Want to tell why you’re so upset?” he asked while they fastened the tarp over the laundry cart.

Otto shrugged, but after a few seconds, he talked. “We were to watch Lohmann’s execution. And my sister kind of said I should be glad not to hang next to him.”

Martin stared at him, aghast.

“Not literally,” Otto added. “Only… de Crinis apparently keeps half an eye on me now. Anni thinks I should try restraint for a change. Guess she’s right; Mother always used to say I have a big mouth.” He sighed. “I hoped she’d come for a visit, now that Anni has Karin, but there’s not much of a chance this winter.”

Martin didn’t comment on the less than subtle change of subject, and for the walk back over the courtyard and maneuvering the laundry cart down the basement ramp, their talk revolved around the harmless subject of their holiday plans – harmless at least as long as it was about the on-call duty. Then however Otto asked: “What’ll you do? Your family lives in Berlin, don’t they?”

“In Hellersdorf,” Martin confirmed after a moment of cold bitterness. “But I won’t visit them.” The insults, the yelling. Then silence. Never a letter to the front, not even when his leg had to be cut off. _Don’t remember_.

Otto frowned, but he didn’t get a chance to ask.

“Can you take the infusions upstairs with you?” Nurse Charlotte asked and handed both of them an according case.

Otto glanced at the contents. “Sure, _now_ they have blood type O.”

“Reminds me, Emil has been asking about you,” Martin told Otto while they brought the blood reserves up to the fridge, “and we had to tell him at length how you saved his life.”

Otto laughed somewhat embarrassedly. “It was Dr. Jung who stitched him up.” He passed Martin the second case, his hand brushing Martin’s in the process.

Martin hastily turned away to tidy up the blood reserves, and the too fast movement chafed his knee badly inside the prosthesis. Ever since Otto had hugged him, Martin was hypersensitive about being touched by him. Otto helped him stand up, and Martin’s overwrought mind told him that he’d be arrested because Otto had held his arm. Otto handed him an instrument or a file, and Martin panicked because it might look like he’d grabbed his hand. It was eating away at his nerves.

So as not to let it show, he answered quickly: “Yes, and Emil made him a paper medal. I think he wanted to make one for you, too. Act like you don’t know.”

“I’d like to look after him, though,” Otto said on their way to the nurses’ room. While he changed his uniform jacket for a white coat, Martin took a look at their schedule.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” he noted, giving Otto the list of urine samples he had to collect. Otto’s disappointed face made him laugh. “You can still visit him after your shift.”

“Visiting hours are over then. Head Nurse Elisabeth won’t let me be on the ward that late in the evening,” Otto grumbled. “Who’s giving out lunch in the back wing?”

“Nurse Laura,” Martin said.

Otto discovered Laura in the hallway, loading bowls onto the trolley, and shot out of the door in the blink of an eye. Martin could see even from that distance how he turned up his charms. When Martin came into the hallway, Nurse Laura admonished half-heartedly: “Don’t you have to go for the samples? The lab is probably already waiting for you.”

Otto gave her one of those wide-eyed, blue-eyed looks. “I’m begging you, Nurse Laura. The boy has a head full of mischief; without me around, he’ll be up to no good. Have a heart.”

Martin smirked at his soft, cajoling voice. _Now, who’s got a head full of mischief?_

Laura tried to refrain from smiling and failed. The raised eyebrow made clear that she knew very well what Otto was doing here, but that didn’t make her immune. “Fine, but only that once.” She took the list from him and left him the trolley with the meals.

When she went her way, Martin glanced at Otto. “Aren’t you ashamed at all?”

“Well, yes, a little bit.” Otto’s grin didn’t agree with his words. He gave Martin a friendly pat on the shoulder and left for Emil’s room, and Martin winced and hated himself for the impulse to reach for Otto’s hand, wishing he could cut off that useless yearning. It was just hurtful.

* * *

Good thing about a hospital was that one wasn’t given too much time to wallow. Dr. Sauerbruch sent him over to the pediatric ward to get a girl whose broken leg needed to be fixed. The kid, Lottchen, was seven years old and not too happy about the change. While her mother talked to Dr. Sauerbruch about the upcoming surgery, Lottchen watched her new surroundings sullenly.

“Better some metal bits and a cast for a few weeks than a wooden leg for the rest of your life,” Martin told her and pulled up his trouser leg to show her the prosthesis.

Lottchen eyed it carefully and then asked: “Does that hurt?”

“Not anymore,” Martin lied. It hurt a damn lot when he got up – he’d had to kneel to check Lottchen’s support bandage, and his knee protested against the upward movement. Had to be the cold; his leg got a bit stiff in winters.

“Martin?” Dr. Sauerbruch called him over while rescheduling the surgeries. “Don’t forget to give the kid her antibiotic, please. I’ll fix the leg at four o’clock. And tell Herrn Marquardt that he’ll assist with Hofmann. He’ll have to separate from his appendage until then.” She pointed down the hallway with her chin, looking mildly amused.

Martin followed her gaze and once again had to smile: Otto came back with the meal trolley before him and Emil riding piggyback. Sauerbruch had removed the boy’s thorax drainage yesterday and allowed him to carefully get back to moving around, but apparently his preferred method of transport was Otto. Dr. Sauerbruch took Lottchen’s mother with her to sign the documents for the surgery and the health insurance, and Martin informed Otto about his assistance assignment.

“Got a bit of time left,” he said. “Sauerbruch wants to take care of him first.” He nodded toward the bed that was just pushed down the hallway by Mathilde and Angelika.

Otto glimpsed at the patient, a gaunt young man with yellowish skin. “Who’s that?” he wanted to know.

“His son Peter, back from Ukraine with hepatitis,” Martin said quietly. “The boss has had him brought here from the internal ward; he wanted to have him around.”

“He looks awful,” Lottchen said with the unerring bluntness of a child.

Sauerbruch walked alongside his son’s bed and talked to him until he was brought into an isolation room. Then he came back, head buried in a stack of files, unusually quiet and earnest until he looked up and found them standing together before the nurses’ room. “Martin, listen.” Ah, there was the familiar commanding voice. “I want you and the girls to spare some time to look after my son regularly. A few patients will be discharged the next few days; schedule should lose a bit weight then. And Marquardt, I want you ready in half an hour for Hofmann’s gallbladder.” He handed Otto his files and commented wryly: “You’ve got something on your shoulder, Marquardt.”

Otto took the documents from him and replied blithely: “Yes; he’s attached to me now. Need to have him removed surgically.”

Emil laughed, and Sauerbruch rolled his eyes and ordered to put the kid back into bed – they didn’t have to overstrain him on the test run. “And the girl goes to bed, too,” he said to Martin.

Lottchen took that as her cue to complain. “I don’t _want_ to go to bed!” she lamented. “I want to go back to the other children!”

“What do you say?” Martin asked in a mock-stern tone while shoving the wheelchair to the back wing, accompanied by Otto.

Lottchen pondered it for a moment and then gave him a sweet tooth-gap smile. “I _would like_ to go to the other children, _please_!”

“For now, there’ll be Emil,” Otto consoled her.

Lottchen looked up to Emil. Emil dismissively looked down at her. “Yes, but he’s a boy – he’s stupid!” she decided. The statement incurred Emil’s indignant protest.

Martin sighed melancholically. “Well, now, _that_ hurt.”

“Oh.” Lottchen’s eyes went wide, and she beamed at Martin when he and Otto took her out of the wheelchair and put her into bed. “Well, _you’re_ not stupid!”

“Otto isn’t stupid, either,” Emil said loftily while climbing into his bed. “He gave me some of his blood!”

“Martin can walk on one leg!” Lottchen claimed not entirely correctly, and they began a longer discussion about who of them had the better caregiver.

“Did we just get adopted?” Otto asked quietly.

“Try _annexed_ ,” Martin replied. Walking on one leg, as if – the damn knee was still aching. He’d have to pay Herrn Heim a visit later.

* * *

Later became much later – taking care of Peter Sauerbruch in addition to their own patients kept them busy, and Martin postponed the examination of his prosthesis for a few days, although he could see after his shift that his knee was sore. On Thursday, he had to admit that it was not because of the weather. The cuff was dislocated, even after several of Martin’s attempts to correct it himself. Now he was annoyed with himself for putting it off; he had the evening shift on Friday, and the prosthesis workshop wasn’t staffed on weekends.

He had to hurry a bit; it was already past five, but if he was lucky, Heim would still be there. But when he opened the door to the workshop, he found it abandoned – or so it seemed. Then someone came from the storage room in the back. Martin’s stomach lurched. Not someone. _Otto_. “What are _you_ doing here?” he blurted out.

Otto didn’t seem to have noticed the rude emphasis. “Herr Heim’s gone home already; I’m allowed to sleep here now.” _Right_. There was a bed in the storage room, and the Waldhausens needed their place for the baby.

Martin hadn’t noticed that he’d been reaching for his knee until Otto asked: “Something with the prosthesis?”

“It’s nothing,” Martin muttered hastily. “Stings a bit. I’ll come back tomorrow.” And with that, he was back at the door and ready for escape.

Only Otto said: “Come on; let’s see.”

No. No way; he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t uncover his crippled leg before Otto, show him this knotty, scarred stump. Not Otto who was always so friendly and open and so ridiculously… _pretty_ on top of it. He didn’t want to see the reaction, the short twist of his mouth before he suppressed his disgust. Lying without blushing… but he didn’t lie all that well to Martin.

Only, what was he to say to Otto? Everything he could say would sound like an insult, that Otto had no clue about prostheses or that Martin didn’t want to be touched by him. _And that would be a lie, too_.

Martin shut the door again. It wouldn’t take long. Otto would only suggest an ointment for now, and he definitely needed that. He took a deep breath, went back and sat down on the intended place. Otto sat before him on a stool, giving him a warm, encouraging smile – one of those real smiles that Martin loved so much. He seemed to know that Martin was uneasy with taking off the prosthesis before onlookers, and looked up at him like he wanted to tell him not to worry.

Then Otto rolled up the leg of Martin’s trousers – and Martin pretty much stopped to think. This was worse, so much worse than disgust. Otto didn’t recoil, didn’t flinch. He just loosened the prosthesis and looked at Martin’s leg up close, _touched him_ , and his face didn’t show anything aside from a doctor’s concern while his fingertips roamed Martin’s chafed skin. Oh _God_. If only it had hurt instead, but Otto was so damn _gentle_ …

“That’s badly sore,” he noted.

Martin stared at the opposite wall, listening to his pulse pounding in his ears. He really needed to think of something else than Otto’s hand on his thigh. “Give me the boracic ointment, please?” he managed to say, although it sounded kind of choked to him.

Thank heavens Otto went to get it immediately, and Martin’s brain got somewhat back into working order. “You should take the prosthesis off for a few days so the skin can heal,” Otto advised while going through Heim’s tins.

“And in the meantime, I’ll stand on one leg while making beds?” Martin retorted, glad to meet his usual wry tone.

Otto came back and held the ointment tin to him, looking worried. “Take a few days off, then.”

Martin wished he could caress Otto’s cheek and tell him not to fret about him. _Keep him at distance, Schelling._ “Did you see Sauerbruch’s son?” he asked sourly while applying the salve. “Half-starved? No point in getting whiny over such a trifle.”

Otto turned his back on him for another moment to look for something. “At least hepatitis brought him back home,” he said and returned with a strip of gauze. He sat back down on his stool, again looking at Martin with an open, sincere smile and those bright blue eyes… oh no… _quit looking at me like that!_

Otto didn’t notice Martin’s panic, nor his arousal. “Hope he’ll tell everyone the truth about the war,” he continued while bandaging Martin’s stump.

Martin swallowed down a very undignified sound. Damn those warm, gentle hands… He grabbed for the prosthesis mechanically, and Otto helped him to shove it back in place and fasten it. Martin didn’t look at him – those blue eyes were _not helpful_. Nor was the angle, because it was pretty ideal to just… lean down a bit, cup Otto’s face between his hands and…

“There’s something I need to ask you about.”

That sentence, thank God, got through to Martin’s hormone-addled brain. Caution called him back to Here and Now. “Which would be?”

Otto looked at him again while he rolled down the trousers’ leg, serious and attentive by now. “When I came from the movies the other day, I saw you walking out of the precinct.”

That helped. Martin crashed back into reality roughly and suddenly, and his pulse went racing again, this time in fear. _Talk him out of it. You can’t explain that to him. Not that_. “Nonsense.” He grinned, but it could hardly have looked convincing. “What would I be doing at the precinct? You must have mistaken someone for me.”

Otto frowned, and wariness flickered up in his eyes. He didn’t believe him. “But I’m sure that…”

“That wasn’t _me_!” Martin snapped.

Otto caught his angry scowl and fell silent. He looked startled, but what was worse, he looked distrustful. It stung worse than expected, to know that Otto didn’t trust him – couldn’t trust him and never should have; that had been a mistake from the get-go.

Martin was incredibly relieved when someone opened the door and came in.

“Otto!” a bright voice called, and Emil ran to Otto, beaming with joy, to hug him and thank him again for the blood donation. Martin hastily made his way out while Otto was busy receiving his paper medal. _Coward!_ Emil’s mother stood at the door waiting for her son, and Martin nodded to her in passing, but now he was in a hurry to get into his room and lock himself in.

 _That’s it_. He had lied to Otto, and Otto knew. And he’d do it again as soon as they broached the subject again. He had to – _you can’t talk about something like that_. Otto might not have been sickened with Martin’s stump, but he certainly would be if he knew about _that_. And the only safe way to avoid questions was to avoid Otto.

* * *

His resolution held up for an entire two hours, albeit not due to his fault – they had another bombing night. He could feel Otto’s dejected look while they brought the patients down to the shelter. Once, Otto halted when passing him, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Martin shook his head, pointing at the patients. There were more important things at hand.

But later, down in the protection cellar, keeping away from him was more difficult. Martin had crawled into his usual place when he saw Otto who just sat down his last protegee and looked for a corner where he could stay. Martin moved aside by instinct – just because _he_ was an idiot and a horrendous liar didn’t mean Otto had to stand or sit on the floor for hours – and Otto took him up on the unspoken invitation and dropped down onto the bench next to him.

For a while, they were quiet. Then: “…Martin?”

Martin considered whether he’d be able to ignore him. Lying to him had been painful, but the truth – he couldn’t tell Otto the truth. Otto wouldn’t want to talk to him anymore. _So, now you behave like_ you _don’t want to talk to_ him _anymore? What’s this about, your ego?_ “What?” It was meant to sound distant and aloof and probably did, because Otto looked crestfallen.

“Listen, about earlier… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you angry. I just thought…” He trailed off, and Martin felt like the worst shit. Now _Otto_ apologized, even though he’d been right and he probably knew – why did he make it so difficult to turn away from him? “We don’t have to argue because of that, do we?” He looked distressed upon saying that, and Martin almost forgot he couldn’t just hug Otto. He wanted it so badly.

“No, we don’t,” he agreed and sounded amazingly normal. “It’s alright.”

And Otto beamed at him and the world was fine.

A crashing noise made them both look into the direction it had come from. “West,” Otto said. “Hope it’s not Grunewald; the boss won’t like that.”

“It’s probably Charlottenburg. Population is denser there,” Martin replied. He liked sitting next to Otto, huddled together side by side. Nobody said anything about it since space was scarce anyway, and Otto’s warmth grounded him.

And Otto didn’t appear bothered by it. “How’s your wooden leg?“ he asked.

“The cuff’s gotten out of place,” Martin said with a shrug. “I really have to show that to Heim tomorrow; he might have to fix it anew.”

Otto sighed. “As soon as possible, before the prosthesis is ruined. Else you can go to physiotherapy with Lottchen and make a show of hopping around. Look at her – the world could fall to pieces, and she wouldn’t mind.”

Lottchen sat on the floor, her newly repaired leg sprawled out similarly to Martin’s, putting together a wooden jigsaw and appearing completely unperturbed by the far racket. Ever since she’d been brought over from the pediatric ward, she’d sulked about it, and Emil getting to go home while she had to stay hadn’t made it better. Now, she was busy with a silent tantrum that consisted of ignoring her surroundings.

“Still better than leaving her upstairs with Christel,” Martin said, and Otto smirked. “How was your evening with her, anyway?”

Upon the mention, Otto’s expression suddenly got cold and empty. “Alright.”

Martin looked at him bewilderedly. Otto had asked Christel out to distract her from the pamphlet, but with the way he went about flirting all the time, Martin had assumed he’d enjoy it all the same. “Was the movie so bad?” he guessed at random.

Otto huffed. “The movie was the tolerable part; at least she didn’t gossip about someone then,” he mumbled. Martin laughed, and Otto looked ashamed because of his bad manners. “I mean, it wasn’t that bad. She was just keeping up conversation. Only… at some point, we talked about the war, and she…” He stalled, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “She said something about heroism and serving the country and the _Führer_ , what an honor it is.” Another few seconds of silence. “It’s bad enough when a civilian talks like that, but they often don’t know. Coming from a nurse… I mean, it’s weird. She sees the returnees, after all.” He fell silent, too polite to admit that sort of talk repelled him, but Martin could see it at the way he frowned and clenched his teeth.

He fought against his wish to just put an arm around Otto and pull him close. He wanted to tell him – tell him that it hurt to have to lie to him, that it was painful to have him so close and still have to keep his distance.

He wanted to tell him how precious those moments at work were when Otto took a minute between making beds and cleansing catheters to talk to him, when he bantered with them all to make their lives a tad easier. That Martin was quietly happy every time Otto gave his all for each of their patients – for Lohmann’s rescue, Veronika’s good mood, Emil’s safety. To see his smile, not the one chiseled in stone and carefully practiced, but the warm, honest smile that Otto didn’t show all that often when he was among others.

Wanted to tell him that he loved him.

There was another bang, loud enough to scare Lottchen this time. Her head jerked up, but instead of wailing right away, she looked at Martin, raised her arms and whined: “I want up! Would like to, please!”

Otto picked her up and helped Martin to place her halfway comfortably on his healthy leg, her cast across his prosthesis. Only then, Lottchen buried her face in Martin’s collar and cried for a bit. Martin awkwardly patted her shoulder. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ children, but different than Otto, he didn’t seem to have a natural talent for dealing with them, and sometimes he wondered if he’d missed out on something because he was an only child. He looked at Otto in search for help, but Otto’s smile told him silently: _You’re doing fine_.

He would keep it to himself. For both their safety, yes, but also because he was way too selfish at this point to renounce Otto’s friendship. He didn’t think he could bear that anymore.


	6. Going out on a Limb

The morning after the air raid, Martin and Otto were tasked with the necessary repairs. Not all that bad, Martin thought – cardboard, tape and toolkit instead of laundry and medicaments, Otto instead of the niggling head nurse. A few pipes and windows had been grazed by shrapnel splinters and had to be provisionally sealed, but altogether, Charité had gotten off lightly. The Technical University in Charlottenburg was a pile of rubble by now; Otto told him of several students who’d come to the caserne for shelter.

“The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church is a ruin, too,” Martin said while trimming the cardboards for the window covering. Although, in doubt, he’d feel better about a razed church than a razed hospital.

Otto sighed. “Dorothee will be heartbroken,” he noted, and for a moment, Martin felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath his feet, until Otto elaborated: “Fellow student of mine – she and Erich want to marry before the exam, before he’s going back to the front, and she wanted the ceremony to be held in the Kaiser Wilhelm church.”

_Oh. Right._

Martin took a breath. The fact that he found said Dorothee a great deal more acceptable knowing she’d marry an Erich and not an Otto Marquardt was a little worrying. “We were luckier than Hamburg,” he said, trying to keep the talk from stalling. “They had ten times as many dead.”

“And we got the runaway crocodile,” Otto replied. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything.

Martin shrugged and had him hand over a stripe of tape. “At least Knautschke survived.” It had been a good five years since he’d been to the zoo himself, but Lottchen had told him happily about her last visit there, describing every animal in loving detail.

Otto on the other hand frowned. “Knautschke?”

“Shows you’re not from Berlin,” Martin needled him. “Knautschke, the hippo. He’s kind of a celebrity around here.”

Otto’s reaction was worth it – every time Martin teased him, he attempted to look cross and sniffy, and was always defeated by his own grin. “If I want to see a celebrity, I’ll go to the movie theater, not the zoo,” he retorted. “As long as we still have one.” And then, a second later: “Want to go sometime?”

The question caught Martin off-guard, but Otto’s expression was even worse. He looked hopeful and a bit insecure, his eyes bright – and Martin had seen him flirting with the nurses often. He knew what Otto looked like when he was _intent_ on charming someone, and this here was something else. It was entirely sincere, nothing playful about it. And it made Martin feel that yearning again, made him wish with all his heart he could say yes.

He looked back down on his cardboard. “To the movies?” _Two men don’t go watch a movie together. That’s not done, Otto; don’t be an idiot._ “I thought you’d rather go with Nurse Christel,” he replied as wryly as he could.

Otto gave him another piece of tape and smiled – he always smiled – but Martin could see the disappointment beneath it, and it hurt. Lying without blushing.

The thought returned later when Sauerbruch had sent that godawful court martial judge turning tail, and ordered him and Otto to keep watch over Hans von Dohnanyi. They exchanged a glance; following Otto’s shrug, Martin left for the new task. It made him nervous in an unspecific way – or perhaps excited. From now on, keeping silent and burning pamphlets would just not do anymore; from now on, they would _have_ to lie.

Hans von Dohnanyi was not an unwitting child who’d picked up a shred of paper, and not a crippled soldier. He was a former Reich prosecutor, in-law of the Bonhoeffers, and behind his name stood like a quiet promise the word _“resistance”_. Sauerbruch didn’t hide him from a zealous functionary but from the NS judiciary. This was not to be taken easily, Martin reminded himself as he stepped into the patient’s room.

Hans von Dohnanyi didn’t look like a resistance fighter or a prosecutor. He looked rather done for, lying pale and thin on his bed, unable to move much after his apoplexy. If he radiated anything, it was frustration, and Martin sympathized with that – the nurses had apparently stuffed him into pajamas and put up an infusion before leaving him to himself, which meant he was left to stare at the ceiling and be bored silly.

“Hello. I’m Martin, your orderly and bodyguard,” Martin introduced himself, a bit insecure since the man had no good reason to trust him. “Nice to meet you, Herr von Dohnanyi.”

Von Dohnanyi passed him a scrutinizing look. The left corner of his mouth twitched in half a smile. “Hans should be enough,” he mumbled.

* * *

Within a few days, he, Otto, and the Sauerbruchs had found into their new routine. The professor had worked out a plan for physiotherapy, and Hans wanted to get started as soon as possible. Upon request, Martin had gotten him a drawing pad and pencils, and now a shaky hand drew lines on the paper, hardly visible because there was almost no pressure in drawing them. Hans looked highly focused, determined to produce something recognizable. He already seemed to talk more clearly.

Martin often resorted to listening, only occasionally asking questions if he knew how to ask them cautiously enough. There were many things they couldn’t talk about in the open. He suspected there were plans, ideas, less cautious thoughts that had been written down and perhaps voiced at some point. They weren’t voiced here. De Crinis and others were too close. About what Hans _did_ , they couldn’t talk and Martin wouldn’t ask.

But Hans did talk about the Dohnanyis and the Bonhoeffers, his wife and children, his brothers-in-law and father-in-law. He talked about his time as a prosecutor, and once Martin heard him lament bitterly toward Otto. “You had the right idea. It should have been medicine, not the law. At least you get to help people.”

“Well, we can try,” Otto said with a shrug. Martin noticed his doleful smile.

So did Hans. “Something giving you grief?”

Otto had been about to take off Hans’ leg compresses. Now he stalled for a second. “I got mail from my mother. Two of my former classmates are dead, Eastern front.” He lowered his head. “I don’t want to go back there, not at all, but… I don’t know; perhaps I can make a difference when I have to go.”

Martin clenched his jaw. Did he want Otto to make that difference? Perhaps even give his life to save another? _It would be typical, wouldn’t it? It’s just the kind of impulsive stupidity he’s prone to._

None of them had to come up with an answer because the door opened and Nurse Angelika walked in to change the bedpan. She nodded briefly to Hans and Martin; then she spotted Otto. “Herr Marquardt, why are you still around? Shouldn’t you be at the lecture? I thought you’d gone with Lydia earlier.”

Otto looked up in alarm. “What time is it?”

“Ten past three,” Angelika informed him wryly, and he blurted out a curse.

Martin took the fresh compresses from him. “Go; I’ll finish here.”

“Thanks, Martin – Nurse Angelika, you’re my savior!” Otto said and gave her one of his _looks_ before he hurried out.

Nurse Angelika, thirty-seven years of age and thus a bit too old to be more than slightly amused with Otto Marquardt’s ice-melting looks, raised an eyebrow. “Sure, I’m the latrine champion,” she muttered while marching out.

Hans laughed quietly, and Martin went about the compresses. After a moment of mulling it over, he remembered who Lydia was – a med student of the internal ward who was often given the less than glorious task to bring patients, files and samples from one ward to another. She and Otto had to be acquainted, although he had never mentioned her. _Enough already, Schelling_ , Martin rebuked himself. There was really no point in brooding about every girl Otto might or might not ask out…

_Otto doesn’t go out with girls._

The realization made him pause. That couldn’t be right. Otto was always flirting, with Christel and Laura and Anna… Hans glanced at him quizzically, and Martin quickly resumed his task. _Yes, he’s flirting. And nothing more._ He was here since late September, and all of the girls were taken with him – little surprise. Some of his fellow students ogled him even during lectures.

And the one and only time Otto had asked a girl out had been the evening with Christel. There were girls he was friends with, but he mostly met them in his study group. The only person aside from his sister he regularly spent time alone with… was Martin. Whenever their shifts and the lectures allowed it, Otto was with _him_.

Which was, like Otto’s invitation for a movie, something he didn’t want to think about.

“When will your wife be here today?” he asked.

Hans passed him a lopsided smile. “Already growing sick of me, are you?”

Martin took the joke as good-naturedly as it was meant. On Hans’ request, he turned on the radio Christel von Dohnanyi had brought here. He turned down the volume and selected the frequency of BBC. The last tones of _“Lili Marleen”_ just faded out, and then the presenter announced: _“Hier ist England.”_

Martin looked at Hans who perked up and nodded, and Martin locked the door when he left to help the girls with making beds. Frau von Dohnanyi would ask him for the key, later, and sneak into the room to whisper messages to her husband, truths too precious to be spoken out loudly.

And Martin would return before his shift’s end to bring dinner and give them a warning look. _Quiet, quiet. Never a word too much._

* * *

“Actually, I kind of like it,” Otto said quietly during a cigarette break. “That there’s someone working towards change.”

“Our ultimate victory?” Martin asked, making Otto laugh. The grand phrasing of Nazi propaganda was easy to hide behind. Martin took a drag from his cigarette and looked around to be sure there were no listeners. “Makes you antsy, doesn’t it? Keeps you asking, when will something happen? Can we do anything to help it? When will they make it?”

“Who’ll be faster, Soviets or instigators?” Otto added and thus summed up an issue even the enemy radio stations couldn’t solve: Would the country have to fall to shreds around them first? Would they live to see the change?

“I hope…” Otto muttered but didn’t say what he hoped for. He smiled somewhat absentmindedly and scratched a spot on his neck, pulling down his collar a bit in the process. Martin’s gaze got stuck on the nape of his neck. He kind of wanted to kiss Otto there… Martin squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation. Fondness was one thing, and he had halfway come to terms with it, hurtful as it was. But the occasional bouts of lust were just _annoying_.

“I hope they’re hurrying a bit,” he said. “The supply situation throughout the winter is lousy. If it goes on like this, Sauerbruch will have us collect cigarette ashes to make soap.”

“As long as we don’t have to chew leather yet – hey, I mentioned the letter from my mother,” Otto remembered. “I think she’s going to send me a load of food for Christmas.”

“Why? Waldhausens didn’t invite you over for roast?” Martin asked, aware of the selfish motivation for his question.

Otto made a face. “No, thanks. Anni said I should come, but I really don’t need Artur to make me feel unwelcome all evening.” Martin had kind of expected that – and hoped for it, a little bit. “All the others are happy about two weeks lecture-free,” Otto told him amusedly, “but I think I’ll be bored to death when I’m stuck with on-call duty and cramming only.”

Martin cleaned his throat. It was no big thing. They’d eaten together many times, and it had been years since he’d made any fuss about Christmas. “Oh… if you can’t think of anything better, you can come around. We’ll play Rummy or something. Or listen to the enemy stations.” He tried to make a joke of it, like Otto did often.

Otto beamed at him, one of his genuine smiles that brightened his entire face. “I’ll see to it that I bring my food parcel.” God, Martin loved it when Otto was happy.

“Martin!” The voice of the boss sounded over the courtyard. Martin and Otto hasted to the parking lot where Sauerbruch was just getting into his car, which of course didn’t keep him from dishing out orders. “I want you to repeat Dohnanyi’s exercises with him before you call it a day, got it?” Martin nodded, not that Sauerbruch cared – his commands had to be followed without hesitation. “Marquardt, you go check on your niece, see if she’s gotten out of anesthesia well.”

Otto got very pale very suddenly. “What’s with Karin?” he asked quietly. But instead of waiting for an answer, he turned over to run into the building.

Sauerbruch rolled his eyes. “He’s tying himself up to a knot for nothing,” he grumbled, and when Martin found Otto later, an exasperated Head Nurse Elisabeth was assuring him that Karin was just fine, that her hematoma had been treated and she’d be home for Christmas or, worst case, New Year’s.

 _Christmas_. There had been many of those at home with his parents and two at the front, which was why Martin put the holiday strictly into the category titled _“Don’t remember”_. Now… he’d spend Christmas with Otto. The thought made his heart lurch a bit.

* * *

It was already past five when the head nurse let him and the girls leave the ward at Christmas Eve – two hours past the shift’s end, but they had to sort everything out since there’d be only on-call duty during the holidays. Right on time for Christmas, Lottchen was discharged, too, and she’d come to hug Martin and wrinkle her nose at him. “Your shirt smells like someone got sick,” she’d said.

“That can happen on a sickbay,” Martin had replied unconcernedly.

Lottchen had squealed in outrage. “Yuck!” She still had waved to Martin for goodbye before she’d teetered off alongside her mother.

Martin was on his way upstairs to get rid of the sullied coat when he ran into a morose-looking Otto. Maybe his last lecture of this year had been with de Crinis… “What’s bugging you?” Then he came up with an unpleasant, less harmless suspicion. “Is something wrong with Karin?”

“Oh no; she’s recovering just fine, says Dr. Sauerbruch.” Otto shrugged and looked at a little package wrapped in brown paper that he held in his hands. “Nurse Christel just tried to recruit me for the staff’s Christmas celebration. What did she say who’s coming – all of her sports group, the nurse trainees from BDM…?”

He grimaced, and Martin laughed at him. “Since when do you not feel like being the rooster in the henhouse?”

“Nurse Laura warned me,” Otto explained. “Bunch of tattling old people and folk music.”

“Isn’t Laura out to visit her Herrn Fischer? And she’s complaining about old people?” Martin jibed.

There was a spark of something in Otto’s eyes. “And she’s _such_ a sweet girl. We should have invited her; we could play Skat.”

It was a very hypothetical scenario to add another guest to his evening with Otto, and Martin knew that Laura had other plans, but it was enough to peeve him a little. _Sweet girl_. He opened his mouth although he didn’t have a reply yet – then he saw Otto’s grin, the raised eyebrow. _You. Little. Shit._ He’d never considered that Otto did that on purpose.

His lack of a quick-witted retort made Otto laugh, and he handed Martin the little package. “Here, that’s from Frau von Dohnanyi for us to share. It’s breakable though. Can you put it aside for later?” With that, he was off.

Martin saw him again later in the auditorium when Otto sat next to Anni; he saw his smile when Sauerbruch wished them a blessed celebration of love. And he could see the twinkle in his eyes when they noticed that at least the Sauerbruchs sang the Christian lyrics against the rest of the crowd. Otto glanced at him over his shoulder, and Martin couldn’t help his grin. _Quiet, quiet, never a word too much_ – as if; Otto sang _“Silent Night”_ on top of his lungs and with no shame whatsoever, and Martin flicked the leaflet with the awful Hitler lyrics to the ground and sang along.

Actually, Martin did know better. Caution had kept him alive for years, but right now he didn’t _want_ to be cautious. Not with de Crinis and Bessau frowning as they looked over the crowd, searching the troublemakers who didn’t want to sing to honor the _Führer_ , not with Otto laughing his head off as they ran up the stairs, overexcited and happy.

“Have you seen Christel’s face?” Otto managed to say despite the laughter while he shut Martin’s door behind them. “Like she’d bitten a lemon!”

“And half of those in uniform got louder and louder!” Martin noted blithely while he turned on the light and set up water for tea.

Otto took the seat that had become his regular place. “And the other half got quieter,” he pointed out.

Nevermind that the food was really nice for a change – ham and eggs from Frau von Dohnanyi, nut cookies with real honey from Frau Marquardt, plus jam that consisted of something else than turnips – they had a very pleasant evening. Otto told Martin of the little private Christmas celebration of the Dohnanyis a few floors beneath them, and later Martin couldn’t quite tell why the mood changed so suddenly. He supposed it had been Otto who’d started talking about his conscription, but he didn’t know what had prompted that.

“End of the semester, I have to take my exams, and if I fail them, I’ll be conscripted as a regular soldier. Either way, I’ll go back to the front.” He looked dejected, and Martin didn’t know what to say. _He_ wouldn’t ever be sent back, so what was he to say?

But Otto seemed to aim for something specific, because he was continuing: “And that’s why I wanted to tell you something.” He took a deep breath and set his knife aside to grip Martin’s hand. _Wait a moment, what?_ Martin looked up, alarmed. He only had half a second to try and make sense of Otto’s hand, warm and firm on his, his nervous, hopeful smile, when he uttered unabashedly what Martin had so carefully kept to himself for weeks and months.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Afterwards, Martin hated himself for his reaction. Afterwards he was appalled with how quickly he’d turned Otto’s affection into fear. But when Otto made his confession, first thing Martin did was leap to his feet and recoil like he’d been touched by something venomous.

He got a distressed glance from Otto for it. “Is that so bad?”

What a stupid question was that? _Of course it’s bad! You can’t say something like that! People are arrested for that!_ Only, Otto apparently trusted him. _Trusts me with something like that, telling me in the hope for… how can anyone be so stupid?_

Otto looked as if Martin had hit him. “Don’t worry; it’s not contagious,” he whispered.

… _what?_

Martin looked at Otto, struggling to understand. Not contagious– was that supposed to mean… did Otto think… _Martin_ was disgusted with _him_? That was wrong; that was so very twisted– he could never– that was absurd, because– “I’m a convicted 175er,” he blurted out, and suddenly the entire hideous story burst out of him, the reason for his front service, what had happened to Theo, the conditions of his probation – everything. Otto stared at him, eyes wide and full of horror.

“If they find out I’m with a man again, then… I’ll be a habitual criminal, a repeat offender, and that… that means death camp,” he spluttered. _We can’t. We’re not allowed._ Even though Otto evidently wanted the same. Even though he was just risking his head confessing his feelings and Martin threw it all back in his face.

Otto had tears in his eyes. “I… don’t want to put you in danger,” he choked out.

Martin grabbed Otto’s face with both hands and kissed him. It was rough, it was desperate, and Otto didn’t seem to mind because he kissed him back just as fiercely. The interrogations, the danger – _I don’t care, I don’t care at all_ , because Otto kissed him and wanted him and was in love with him, and his mouth was warm and urgent on Martin’s and his hands braced around Martin’s head because he didn’t want to let go of him…

_You have to care. Because of what happened to Theo. What can happen to you._

_What can happen to Otto._

The thought made him feel cold. He somehow managed to push Otto away, shaking and breathing heavily.

Otto was ringing for air, too, and looking at him like that again, his eyes aglow with a muddle of feelings – confusion and anxiety and _want, goddammit_ … Martin had to stop looking at him, or he’d drag him over to his bed here and now. And Otto would let him.

“We can never do that again,” he said. He turned away, straightened out his vest and his glasses. Took a deep breath. Then he flinched because Otto spoke.

“I…” He sounded like choking, barely forming a few words. “I have to… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Martin stood there motionlessly as Otto hasted past him and out of the door. He kept staring at the wall, determined not to look at Otto again, but he still saw the tears. When the steps had disappeared down the hallway, Martin shuffled to the door and locked it up.

He felt empty, but it was strangely painful, as if someone had removed all of his innards. Only the prosthesis still made its presence known, pinching his knee because it was late and long since time to take it off. Martin staggered back to the table and sat down to unburden his leg. He glanced at the forgotten meal before him. _Half of that is Otto’s._

Mechanically, he spread meat and egg on two buttered slices of bread, put them together and wrapped them up in parchment paper. He’d give Otto his share tomorrow at shift change.

The notion to see him tomorrow and act like nothing had happened stabbed through his numbness like a blade. He hadn’t _done_ anything, dammit! It was Otto’s fault! He had started it! _Otto wasn’t the one trying to eat_ your _face, Schelling._

Martin slammed the carefully wrapped package down on the tabletop, turned off the light and changed for the night. He just wanted to sleep. But when he was about to take off his prosthesis, the image of Otto running out of the door haunted him.

Otto had been crying. He’d been crying, and Martin had let him go.

He hadn’t even managed to say it, hadn’t told him that he wanted the same. _Coward! Keep your mouth shut at any cost; is that all you can do? Otto is ten times over the man you are!_ After a few seconds, he fixed the straps again and grabbed for the bread package. He’d bring it to Otto right now – he just had to see if he was alright.

Only when he was already walking down the hallway, he realized that he did so in his pajamas. Well, that wouldn’t look wrong to anyone at all. _Who cares. It’s late at night, and whoever is still up now is out for celebration._ Still, Martin winced at every other step when his wooden leg tapped on the floor way too loudly. _Doesn’t matter._ He just had to get to the prosthesis workshop and look after Otto. He didn’t run into anyone on his way down, either. It felt odd to sneak through the hospital at night – to be precise, it ran counter to all his instincts to lock himself into the safety of his room. _Not now. Later._

The tension eased up a bit when he reached the workshop, but was back immediately as he opened the door – there was a faint whimpering sound coming from the storage room. Alarmed, Martin hasted there and didn’t find too much at first because it was dark. He could only just about discern Otto, a curled-up, twitching figure on the bed, gasping and stammering incomprehensibly. Martin dropped the bread package on the nightstand and fumbled for the light switch with one hand while grabbing Otto’s shoulder with the other and shaking him. “Otto – Otto, wake up!”

Finally, he caught the damn switch. Otto squinted and quickly shielded his eyes with his hand. He was sweaty and trembling, his breath faltering.

Martin flopped to the ground next to the bed, incredibly relieved. He caressed Otto’s cheek without thinking about it. Those nightmares were hell, and they didn’t cease all that soon. And that after the way their evening had closed. “What a day, huh?” he muttered.

Otto looked at him. “Martin?”

Martin thought that perhaps he should pull away his hand, but Otto had already clasped it, and Martin forgot why he should have pulled away. It felt good to have Otto hold his hand. He felt so much better now, as if something had clicked back into place because he was still able to talk to him. “You shouldn’t sleep without light,” he chided him, although he couldn’t refrain from stroking Otto’s damp hair from his forehead.

Otto turned his head a bit and pressed a kiss into Martin’s palm – yet another impulsive show of affection that made Martin falter. That was just not _allowed_ … but how was he to say that when he liked it so much, when Otto gazed at him so tenderly?

“What are you doing here?” he asked Martin quietly.

Martin shrugged and rested his head against the edge of the bed. “I wanted to look after you,” he admitted.

“Because of earlier?” Otto frowned and looked at the hand he was holding. Martin swiped his thumb over Otto’s knuckles, and Otto caressed him in kind. Eventually, he looked back at Martin. He didn’t seem upset anymore, just a bit sad. “At first I thought you didn’t want to hear that from me. But that’s not it.”

Martin gulped down the lump in his throat and shook his head. “No.” He took a deep breath to confess the shameful truth to Otto. “I’m just wretchedly afraid.”

Otto smiled tiredly. “But you’re coming here. In the middle of the night,” he pointed out, and Martin laughed. Now he was not only a coward, but also inconsequential.

And Otto didn’t reproach him for it; he just smiled and held his hand, so genuinely happy to have Martin here, and Martin thought that by now it didn’t really matter anymore. He leaned forward, drew Otto close and kissed him, albeit much more softly than he had earlier. Otto sighed at his mouth.

He kept it with a short, gentle kiss, but this time, he pulled back only a few inches afterwards. Otto’s fingertips ghosted over his cheeks, and there was that warm, intense gaze again, holding Martin in place. _I love you_ , he wanted to say, the words lying in wait, and _We can’t do that_ just behind them.

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered coarsely. “We’ll be on watch tomorrow.” He hauled himself to his feet, wondering if he’d be able to sleep now that Otto didn’t cry.

But he still froze dead in his tracks when he heard the weak voice. “Martin?”

Martin turned back around. He realized that, if Otto asked him to stay now, he would. It was dangerous, it was stupid, but one word of Otto’s and he wouldn’t care. Part of him was dismayed to realize what power Otto had over him, beyond any reason. Part of him wished he would ask, wanted it desperately.

Otto didn’t ask. “Happy Christmas, still,” he said very softly for goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BDM = "Bund Deutscher Mädel", translates roughly to "League of German Girls"
> 
> Gotta apologize to Martin and amputees around the world for that awful chapter title - it wasn't really meant to be a pun; after all, it's not Martin who's going out on a limb here but Otto M. Awkward.  
> By the way, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church is one damn pretty thing, even with the roof still collapsed. And I'm left wondering if the German-language BBC has preserved some of its recordings...


	7. Hardly Innocent

“Oh, heavens – I’m so sorry, Martin!” Nurse Charlotte looked at him guiltily and hurried to move the trolley back that she had just run into Martin’s leg.

Martin gripped his knee and ground out: “It’s alright” with his teeth clenched, wishing he could cuss loudly instead. _Every damn time on the joint!_ “Give me a portion; I’ll bring that to Dohnanyi.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, but she helped him to a serving and handed the bowl to him. It was the last day of the year, and by now everyone on the ward had gotten used to Hans’ presence – and the silence the Sauerbruchs shrouded around their patient. Martin limped to the Dohnanyi room, knocked and wasn’t too surprised albeit still uncomfortable to find Otto there. He and Hans were apparently engaged in a lively conversation, but Otto fell silent when Martin came in. A short exchange of glances occurred; then he lowered his head.

“Martin,” Hans greeted him. “What’s in for me today?”

“Potato soup and fresh compresses,” Martin replied and made his way past Otto, taking care not to touch him. He still felt his gaze, quietly upset. The expected jest of Otto’s – _“but those are difficult to chew”_ – didn’t come up.

Otto stood up, clearing his throat. “I’ve got to go; need to feed Karin.” He nodded towards Hans and then Martin before he left.

Martin was back at wrapping compresses. He’d get used to it. Otto would get used to it. It was better that way, less dangerous.

“Did the two of you have a dispute?” Hans asked as the door fell shut behind Otto.

Martin was absorbed in his dreary thoughts and accordingly startled by the inquiry. “What?” _Crap! How much of that is visible?_

Hans just shrugged in reply to his spooked look. “I just mean the way you’re tip-toing around each other. You and Otto are usually the best of friends.”

Martin wanted to deny that – it couldn’t be good for them if someone, even a friend, thought they were close. But… well. They usually talked when they both were taking care of Hans, and he could probably see them in the courtyard from his window when they had their cigarette breaks. Claiming that he and Otto weren’t friends was a bit pointless. “There was no dispute,” he muttered.

That was true. There had been none because they hadn’t spoken more than the most necessary words on the ward since Christmas. There had been none because Martin hadn’t invited Otto over for dinner or lunch anymore, and Otto didn’t dare ask anymore. Martin missed him so much that he sometimes felt like getting strangled when they passed each other in silence.

Hans looked at him attentively.

“Otto has to go to the front soon,” Martin said. That was also true, and it was one of the things he kept repeating to himself to remember why it would be good for them to keep away from each other.

“He said he’d take his exams not before summer,” Hans noted. After a second, he asked: “Do you feel bad for staying here?”

Martin frowned when he considered the question. Would he feel better if he’d go with Otto? If they had to die out there together? _I probably would have gone for it, then._ “Possibly,” he conceded. “Although I make for a better orderly than soldier.”

…he hadn’t been a _bad_ soldier, all things considered. Dutiful, courageous, sort of. His apprenticeship had basically been finalized when he and Theo had been arrested, but he hadn’t been allowed to pass his exam. That formality had been all the difference between a medic and a common soldier. Of course, Martin had still been helping in the military hospital, but it hadn’t kept him from the battlefields. He’d shot men beyond counting, had seen four of them die.

When he’d been brought out of Bulgaria, feverish and with his leg shredded, he’d thought it the end. Instead, he’d come back to Berlin alive – home, alien as it might have become. He’d been dazed from fever and analgesics when Sauerbruch had explained him the surgery method.

Next day, he’d had a halfway usable stump instead of a leg full of splinters that killed him slowly. An officer had presented him with his silver Wound Badge at his hospital bed – silver because the injury was so severe – and had lauded him for the service to his country. Martin had thought of the dead and been silent. He’d been silent for quite a while. Until…

“Sauerbruch reached the end of his fuse eventually, you know?” Martin told and laughed as he recalled how his boss had yelled at him for the first time. “Because I didn’t make much of an effort in physiotherapy. He said I should get it together, take my exam and stay at Charité. They’d need every help.”

Hans smiled, too. “That does sound like him,” he mused.

Martin took off his glasses, scrubbing one hand over his face. “I still have the badge, you know? Knocked it into a box with some old photographs and never touched it again. I framed the exam certification and put it on my wall, but the medal… could have just as well tossed it away.”

He looked down to his glasses, held between trembling hands. Belatedly, he realized that he’d never talked about the whole story. He’d told Otto how he’d begun his employment in the hospital, but Otto had never asked about the war and his lost leg, and Martin was grateful for that. Otto had been part of the medical company. He had never killed anyone. Martin didn’t want to confess that to him. The shame, the _guilt_. Their stares haunting him.

“It will be too late, won’t it?” Hans said, and Martin looked at him, confused. “Too late for those who died. When the Nazis fall down, even if it’s tomorrow… there’s already too much that can’t be revoked.”

“But how much can be stopped yet?” Martin asked. “How soon can…” _How soon can it be? Is there a way to spare Otto? His student company, his year? The generation to come?_

Hans shook his head solemnly. “I don’t know. We can only keep working.”

Martin wanted to ask him how he did it – how he kept holding onto hope with the aim always out of reach, how he could face the fear and the danger and walk on with open eyes. _Where do you get the strength?_ He recalled that Otto had that strength as well. He had known the risk when he had offered Martin his everything, his trust and his heart, and it hadn’t deterred him.

The question didn’t get out because Christel von Dohnanyi came in. Hans visibly lightened up, and Martin hurried to say his goodbye. It had become almost painful to see the two of them together, see how they still found happiness and comfort in each other. _Otto wanted that, too. He used to look at me like that._ It had been easier to bear as long as Martin had thought his feelings unrequited. To deny Otto what he so obviously wanted wasn’t easy at all.

He met Dr. Sauerbruch in the nurses‘ room, dishing out the most necessary orders. “Give Herrn Schmidt his discharge documents and his analgesic. The back wing should be as good as empty, then,” she just said to Nurse Charlotte. “Only the Waldhausen baby left. I’ll examine her once more, and if the scar is alright, she can go home – and so can I, hopefully,” she added grumpily.

“Did the boss put you up for nanny duties for us?” Martin quipped.

Dr. Sauerbruch smiled, a bit exhausted. “He wants as many patients discharged as possible; after New Year’s, we’re going to be knee-deep in air raids again.” She waited until Charlotte had left before asking: “How’s Dohnanyi?”

“Up and about,” Martin reported.

Dr. Sauerbruch raised her eyebrows. “Let’s hope this Roeder guy won’t get to him, then. I’m not sure if we can trust everyone on the ward.”

Martin frowned. He and Otto kept their mouths shut – but Nurses Mathilde and Christel were Party members, and Dr. Wagner a little too generous with information. “Do you have a specific suspicion?” His personal distaste for Christel was, admittedly, not too valid a proof.

But Dr. Sauerbruch shrugged. “Even then, we couldn’t do much – my husband can’t sack someone for being a loyal servant of the state.” With a sigh, she shut the patient file before her. “Herr Marquardt is taking care of Karin Waldhausen, I think. Tell him to bring her here; then the two of you can call it a day. Happy new year, Martin.”

Martin reciprocated the good wishes and obediently trudged to the back wing. He faltered upon seeing Otto though, alone on the otherwise abandoned ward, his niece in his arm and holding a bottle of milk to her mouth. Otto didn’t look up; he didn’t seem to have noticed Martin over his quiet talk to Karin.

Something inside Martin tensed up painfully. Sooner or later, Otto would be holding a lovely baby of his own whose mother was some nice, beautiful girl. Martin resented her already. But it didn’t matter what he thought of that – or what Otto had offered him, since he couldn’t take it anyway. Not if Otto should be out of peril, free to live his life. That infatuation would pass. _Only with the way he said it, it’s not an infatuation. You love him, too. Which right do you have to belittle his feelings?_

Karin made an indefinable noise, and Otto set the bottle down by his side and put Karin on his shoulder, bedding her head on the cloth he’d spread there. “I miss him so, Karin,” he said quietly.

Martin felt like crying.

Karin’s response consisted of a small burp, tearing through the despondent mood – Otto laughed. “You’re a little piglet, do you know that?” he said, his words belying his affectionate tone as he took her back in the crook of his arm to wipe her mouth and tickle her tummy. Karin squealed and kicked her legs about.

Martin finally managed to step into the room and clear his throat. Otto looked up, something flickering in his eyes that he hid away in a moment. Then he seemed reserved, almost indifferent. _Damn you, I don’t want you to become a second version of me_ , Martin wanted to yell and said: “Dr. Sauerbruch wants to have another look at the scar; then the kid can go back upstairs to her parents.”

Otto nodded, and Martin left.

* * *

When he came back from the precinct, it had gotten late. But Martin could see the lights in the Waldhausen flat from the courtyard. Otto and Anni sat there together, Anni holding her baby herself meanwhile. She just said something that made Otto laugh. Martin lowered his head and decided to ignore the sting he felt. He’d just crawl into bed and forget about the interrogation, and a few hours from now, the new year would begin and he could set to his task with new strength – that was, to lead the exemplary, reclusive life the police inspector expected of him.

Glumly, he skulked upstairs and to his room, taking a look at the rest of his bread and deciding to skip dinner. He could just eat next year.

That was when he managed to turn over to the bed in the most stupid way, the bruise Nurse Charlotte had inadvertently given him this afternoon catching up with him – his knee bumped into the prosthesis joint awkwardly, shooting a white hot pain to his head that blinded Martin for a moment as he tumbled down.

“Goddam-” He propped his back up on the wall with some difficulty, stretching his leg and pulling up the trouser to inspect the knee joint reproachfully. At least it seemed to be undamaged; he wouldn’t have to go to Heim yet again. But when he attempted to stand up, the pain returned just as fiercely. Martin dropped back with a grunt.

And then, all the pent-up anger boiled up at once – this _godawful_ leg that he’d sacrificed for this _godawful_ country! To be under permanent suspicion, to live in constant fear – to stand next to Otto while not being allowed to reach out, to not even get to _tell_ him…

Martin punched the wall as hard as he could, rattling the door and his furniture. There was another white-glowing pain, bolting from his fist to his elbow. This time, it was almost a relief. At least, it distracted him for a moment. What a way to end the year, sitting on the floor wallowing in misery and cursing the world. If only he’d gotten drunk instead.

A knocking on the door jolted him out of his self-pity. “Martin?” It was Otto. He’d probably heard the racket.

Every fiber of Martin screamed at him to ask him to come in – _nothing more, just to come in, just to talk_. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. _We can’t do that. Otto cannot be at risk if he’s to live his life._ The notion of Otto with his own child in his arm was blanked out by another, much more real image: Otto clutching Martin and kissing him, holding his hand and smiling at him.

The door clicked. Martin glowered at Otto. “Did I say, _‘come in’_?”

“You didn’t reply at all,” Otto pointed out. “I thought something happened to you. You fell.”

“I’ll survive it,” Martin muttered, struggling with his prosthesis; he didn’t need to be seen like this.

Otto watched him for a moment; then he came in, locked the door and walked over to Martin. “Otto–” His protest was interrupted when Otto gripped his arms, hauled him up and maneuvered him onto the bed. For a split second, Martin was furious – he could stand just fine on his own; _thank you very much!_ – but the feeling trickled away just as suddenly because he knew that Otto didn’t condescend to him. He was a doctor, almost at any rate; this was just what he did. And Martin had pulled him to his legs once, too, and brought him to bed when Otto hadn’t been able to stand. It seemed to have been years ago, that damn first moment of familiarity, of recognizing.

Still, it was back now when Martin looked up to him. Otto had tears in his eyes, and he didn’t try to hide anymore how devastated he was. “Martin?” he pleaded quietly. “If I promise we’ll forget about Christmas – will you talk to me again?”

Something in Martin snapped, and he only choked out: “Goddammit, _Otto_ ” before dragging him close. Otto stumbled forward, and Martin caught him, wrapping both arms around him and burying his face in Otto’s shoulder. Otto immediately embraced him as well, and it was like it had been down in the workshop: Suddenly, everything was so _right_ ; suddenly, he couldn’t do anything but be honest. “I don’t _want_ to forget about Christmas.”

Otto sat down next to him without letting go, winding one arm around his waist and burrowing the other hand in his hair, and Martin leaned in, hands on Otto’s chest to feel his heartbeat. Otto’s breath went shakily, and Martin wondered if he’d started to cry, but he couldn’t check now, not while hiding his own tears in Otto’s collar, relieved and distraught and somewhat happy all at once.

At some point, Otto’s mouth came to rest against his temple. That was followed up by a kiss on the cheek, another on the corner of his mouth and one on the lips, at which point Otto took off Martin’s glasses and set them aside. Martin noticed that his face was wet as he responded to the kisses. What the hell had he tried to do the last days? What had he wanted to make himself believe? As long as Otto wanted him, Martin was _his_ ; he didn’t want anything else, just keep him and be kept by him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t reject him again.

When he retreated eventually, a bit out of breath, Otto sighed, and Martin cradled his head in his hand and tugged him to his shoulder.

Otto nestled to him, his hand finding Martin’s and entwining their fingers with each other. “How’s your leg?” he asked.

Martin shrugged. “Same hassle as always.” Right now, he didn’t really care all that much about his leg. Otto in his arm and his breath on Martin’s neck was of more relevance.

However, Otto put a hand on his knee. “May I see?”

Reluctantly, Martin let go of him and helped him to take off the prosthesis. Otto examined the bruises left there by Charlotte’s mishap and Martin’s fall. Martin shuddered when Otto touched his skin, and laughed upon the memory of the afternoon in the workshop. “Here we go again.”

Otto looked up, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

Martin felt his face getting hot, but he was beyond pretending toward Otto. “That was already driving me insane the first time around,” he confessed quietly with a glance to Otto’s hand on his leg.

“Oh.” A smile bloomed on Otto’s face, although he obviously tried to hide it. “I’m sorry.”

Martin scoffed and put a kiss on Otto’s jaw, just beneath his ear. “Liar.”

Otto gave a quiet, satisfied hum in reply and nuzzled Martin’s neck. A moment later, he pressed his lips to Martin’s throat while lazily stroking up and down his thigh, and Martin closed his eyes and let him, breathing heavily and halfway aware that he was getting hard, but too caught up in the sensation to be remorseful.

It had been four years since Martin had last been having sex, and he still regretted that last time. It had been in the army – the only time someone else than Theo had come close to him. Kehring, a soldier like him, a few years older, already much bitterer, already too weary of life to be afraid. Martin had never even learned his first name.

What they had done had not been affectionate, what Kehring had done to him, standing upright in the dark behind the military hospital. Kehring had been rough and Martin had ended up sore, nevermind the bite marks on his neck, but he’d let him – who cared; it didn’t matter when they had to die the next day anyway, and they both had wanted to feel something that was warm and alive and breathing. Martin had stifled his miserable groans biting down on his uniform sleeve while Kehring had finished him off without any delicacy. They had barely looked at each other – he wasn’t sure if they had even kissed. Two hours later, Kehring’s regiment had marched out, and Martin had never seen him again.

Kehring had been the last before Martin had lost his leg, and perhaps he’d have tried to make it a bit better if he had known that he’d be a cripple soon after. But when he’d been sent home, it hadn’t mattered. Martin had decided to stay alive; that sort of relations was out of consideration for him. So, there’d been no need to care that he wasn’t a pretty sight naked or that no one wanted to touch him there. Martin had often been a showpiece when Sauerbruch wanted to demonstrate a well-fit prosthesis, but his uncovered leg had been seen by an entirety of three people since: Sauerbruch himself, Herr Heim from the workshop, and now Otto.

Only it didn’t feel like a medical check-up with Otto around – it hadn’t the first time and it certainly didn’t now that he knew that Otto wanted him, now that Otto made that unambiguously clear with the way he brushed his mouth over Martin’s neck and ran his hand up the inside of his thigh. He’d fumbled with Martin’s tie and managed to loosen it a bit, enough to reach beneath his shirt. Martin felt Otto’s teeth on his collarbone for a second, grazing his skin gently and followed up by his tongue, warm and wet and insistent.

This time, he couldn’t bite back his groan. “ _Otto_ …”

The sound of his own voice made him flinch. He couldn’t sit here and moan Otto’s name, not with Otto’s sister only one wall away. Mustering all the willpower he could find, Martin shoved him back. Otto looked at him, face flushed and eyes hazy with desire. “Please… don’t. I’ve got neighbors.”

On that, Otto blinked and backed down, albeit not much. “Sorry,” he murmured, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just want…” He trailed off, sheepishly dodging Martin’s gaze.

Martin thought they were kind of past the point where they had to be ashamed. He took a moment to nibble on Otto’s neck and listen to the gasp he elicited from him before admitting: “Yes. I want it, too.” It was the truth, and it had to be enough for now.

As he buttoned up his collar, Otto caught his glance, and they both had to look away, blushing and grinning despite themselves.

“I have to go, I think,” Otto said quietly, wistfully. “Anni probably heard that I came over here.”

Martin nodded, still a bit dazed. “See you tomorrow.”

Otto got up, but before he left, he stooped down to Martin for one last kiss, as much a promise as his words were. “See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Martin's war recollections towards Dohnanyi on Sauerbruch saying in the first episode that Martin had lost his leg during the Balkans campaign.
> 
> And Otto totally poured his heart out to the baby, except for the smutty details, I guess.
> 
> Talking of smut – I raised the rating because Martin and Otto are a bit sexually frustrated, but I might have to go even higher in the next chapter...? Not sure. I'm so not familiar with the specifics of the rating system. I think I'll better be safe than sorry, but don't get frightened (or too expectant, for that matter).


	8. In Fire and Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  _*looks at longest chapter so far*_  
>  _*looks at final scene*_  
> ...I got a bit carried away, alright?  
>  _*goes to stand in a corner and be ashamed*_
> 
> Yes, it's explicit now. I’m not good at fading out. You can just skip from the attic scene to the last few paragraphs.
> 
> This is a long chapter and it's full to the brim, but there was really no point in splitting it up - it's all one mold (in fact, I think the flow in this one isn't too bad).
> 
> Also, I hope you like it 'cause I have to take a break of about two or three weeks, so you're stuck with this state of things for now. See ya!

The change was so subtle that at least Hans thought they’d just returned to the previous state of things – he said he was glad they got along again. Otto made his jokes during work, and his eyes twinkled when he and Martin met in the hallway.

It wasn’t the same twinkle as before, though. The tiny bit of vague longing that had sometimes been discernable had turned into joyful anticipation that gave way to sheer happiness whenever they got the chance to meet in Martin’s room, lock up the door, and forget all pretenses. Almost every day, they had a little bit of time to themselves. Then Otto would lay his head on Martin’s shoulder while they talked or listened to the radio, or he sat between his knees leaning on his chest while Martin queried his exam knowledge, one hand roaming Otto’s hair absent-mindedly.

Otto just finished his exposition about symptoms and treatment of typhoid fever, but Martin had noticed he’d grown impatient, and his hunch was confirmed when Otto shut his book rather resolutely. “Enough for now,” he decided. “It’s too early for that.” Perhaps he was right – they both were put up for the afternoon shift; now it was only half past seven in the morning, their breakfast dishes not washed up yet. But Martin had felt it wasn’t too early to snuggle with Otto, and there hadn’t been objections.

Now he laughed as Otto whirled over in his arms and all but jumped on him. Amazing, really, how easily he’d gotten used to the safety a locked door offered them – enough to settle back comfortably and brush his foot over Otto’s calf while they kissed. Otto let out a small, happy sigh as Martin slipped his tongue between his lips and tugged him closer, his fingers stroking Otto’s neck.

The only issue with their trysts was that they had to cut it out before getting to noisy – which, of course, meant they always stopped when they began to really enjoy themselves. Meanwhile, Martin had wriggled his knee between Otto’s legs, and Otto seized the opportunity to grind himself on him. His low, guttural groan made Martin’s insides flutter, but it was more enthusiastic than it had any right to be.

Otto seemed to notice it himself – Martin felt his eyelashes on his cheeks as he blinked; then they disentangled, although the self-enforced restraint made Otto huff in frustration. “Perhaps you can just gag me,” he groused while lying his head down on Martin’s chest.

“And then what?” Martin asked with a grin.

Otto looked up at him, wide blue eyes and a cheeky smile and a soft, warm tone that called a purr to mind. “Whatever you can think of.”

Martin stifled his chuckle in Otto’s hair. “Behave,” he admonished him only half in jest, even though he couldn’t keep himself from reaching down and getting a handful of Otto’s butt.

Otto gave him another brief kiss and then sat up. “I wanted to ask if you’d help me with something.” Martin raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t well deny Otto anything when he was straddling his hips. Then however, he continued: “I’m to go and pick something up for Hans. He thinks they might keep an eye on his wife; so he asked me.”

The explanation had made Martin frown. Now he added a sigh. “Listen… what Hans is doing – I admire him for that, I really do. But it’s dangerous. Maybe you should stay out of that.”

Otto shrugged. „I’m just to get a few things for him. From an abandoned apartment in Westend. I don’t really know that neighborhood; that’s why I’m asking if you’d tag along.”

Which meant Otto would go either way. Martin looked up at him in exasperation. He felt like protesting more vehemently, but it wasn’t up to him to forbid Otto anything. The only variable he offered was whether or not Martin wanted to accompany him which was tempting but had risks of its own. They couldn’t be seen together too often, not out there. Martin took Otto’s hand and put a kiss on it, trying to get a bit more time to think it over. He really didn’t want Otto straying about out there alone. Eventually, he nodded. “Fine. But not in broad daylight.”

On this, he had to insist, but Otto was on board – his face brightened up instantly. “Tonight after work?”

Martin nodded, resigning himself to his fate. Of course, he’d had to fall in love with someone who considered caution more of a suggestion than a necessity. “We’ll meet in the courtyard.”

* * *

He was uneasy as he stepped out of the building in the evening, and also resenting Hans a bit – because of course he’d asked _Otto_ to do something potentially shady for him; he’d had to know that Otto would agree. Because he was a dissident at heart. While Martin lit a cigarette, he considered rebuking Hans for this later, but his disgruntlement subsided when he spotted Otto.

Martin only recognized him at second glance – he was wearing a dark corduroy coat instead of his grey Wehrmacht coat and a felt cap similar to Martin’s own instead of the uniform headgear. He’d noticed earlier on that Otto preferred civil clothing, but he couldn’t help but wonder if, tonight, that also served the purpose of inconspicuousness. For some reason, Otto was also carrying a worn-out leather bag not unlike a schoolbag.

He stood at the corner of the house, in company of three girls – Anna, Laura, and one whom Martin recognized as a student. The group was chatting vividly, and the girls giggled upon a comment of Otto’s. Giggled perhaps a tad too cheerily, but when Otto laughed and shook his head, they waved him goodbye and left. Martin walked over to Otto. “Was that an attempted abduction?” he quipped.

Otto beamed at him, and they started their way to the station. “The girls were just asking if I wanted to come to the movies with them,” he explained. “They’re watching _Circus Renz_.”

“Already saw that one. Did you know the leading actress was almost mauled by a circus bear on the set?”

Otto blinked. “Well, thanks for this morbid knowledge,” he retorted. “Maybe I should take you to a crime thriller once, since you’re so bloodthirsty.”

Martin smiled. “Still not a good idea,” he reminded Otto gently. “And I don’t actually like crime thrillers.” That wasn’t entirely right; he liked them just fine. But since scenes of interrogations and prisons tended to make him sick, he just skipped the whole lot of them.

They stuck with the subject of movies for a while; Otto told him how his sister had sneaked him into _The Other Side_ when he’d actually been too young to watch a war-related movie. However, their discussion of Theodor Loos’ acting skills petered away when they reached station _Zoologischer Garten_. Otto fell silent, and Martin assumed at first that it was because of the ruins of the zoo and the church they could see while changing trains and which made for a sad view, but he realized soon that Otto was looking around himself curiously until they entered the subway. When Martin inquired, Otto admitted that he’d mostly stayed in the city center since his arrival and that he hardly knew the west part of Berlin at all.

Martin had him tell him the searched address and quickly figured out the way they had to take – he’d had a few schoolmates living in that area.

“We’ve lived in Wilmersdorf before my father got the new job in Lichtenberg,” he recounted. “I was… ten, I think? We moved across half the city, and at some point, my father got sick of me getting in the way of him and the others while they moved the furniture, sat me on his bicycle and told me to go ahead to make coffee and curd potato pancakes for everyone.”

“You can do that?” Otto asked – their usual meals were by necessity limited to rather simple dishes.

“My father’s from Saxony. He taught me the recipe.” It had taken Martin a while to get it right – the right amount of flour, the right temperature. “I’ll make some for you sometime,” he promised when they left the train. Then he noticed Otto’s rapt smile. “What now?”

Otto blushed and shrugged. “Oh… you don’t tell much about yourself. I mean, I know why, but… when you do, it’s nice.”

Martin felt a hint of a bad conscience. It was true. Most of the time, he listened when Otto told about his life. Otto sometimes asked questions, but he never insisted on answers, and volunteering something would mean Martin had to remember. And the memories of curd potato pancakes and bicycling were followed up by those of Father’s silence and Mother’s yelling. Of bruises.

Deciding to focus on their way, Martin led Otto through the streets, passing villas that had last been renovated end of the past century. They didn’t meet too many people, mostly lovey-dovey couples walking home – and if Otto hadn’t been tensely peering around all the time, they would have been one of those as well, even though Martin couldn’t hold Otto’s hand.

Otto unwound a bit when they reached the street Hans had told them. At the right house number, Martin looked up the building with a frown. “And now? Breaking and entering?

Otto shook his head. “Hans gave me the keys.” He opened the door and they slinked upstairs, fast but as quiet as possible – by now, it was almost midnight.

The flat itself was a mess. Open drawers and closets everywhere; one of the doors of a cabinet was hanging from one hinge only. Papers and clothes were scattered across the floor, a broken clock, crockery shards, and all of it was covered with a fine layer of dust. The place was chilly but stuffy – nobody had aired it in quite a while. “This place has been searched,” Martin murmured.

Otto nodded. He didn’t appear surprised; obviously, Hans had prepared him for this. “There should be a loose floorboard under the kitchen cupboard; can you take a look, please?” He himself walked over to the broken cabinet while Martin went to the kitchen to push the cupboard aside. He probed the floorboards beneath with his foot, and one of them creaked and tilted a bit. It was quite a fumble, and Martin was grateful that he hadn’t cut his fingernails too recently. Eventually, the board came loose.

Between the floorboards and the substrate, about a hand’s breath space held several cold pipes and sealing material that had seen better days. Martin reached down and got hold of something that felt like cardboard. He produced two tied-up folders and felt around for more, but that seemed to be all, and so he covered the hole again.

“Otto? I’ve got it,” he said when he came back to the living room. He frowned when he saw Otto cowering before the cabinet, his winter gloves traded for a pair of medical gloves he must have taken from the OR, looking reserved and highly focused like he did when he assisted the doctors. He took a dark suit and a shirt from the cabinet and folded them up. Unsettled, Martin asked: “What’s with that?”

“A few clothes Hans wanted to have,” Otto said as if it were the most normal thing in the world. But he wrapped the suit carefully into a canvas he’d brought, tied it up and stuffed it into his bag, followed up by the gloves. Only then, he took the documents from Martin – notes and, more disconcerting, _names_ , but Otto only had a glimpse at them and then brought the whole stack back into the kitchen to dump them in the sink. “You got matchsticks?”

Martin rummaged through his pockets and handed the box over. “Here.” Otto set the folders on fire; the paper was dry and brittle and scorched up easily. As they watched the little bonfire in the sink, Martin thought of Emil’s pamphlet. Once again, they were obliterating evidence to protect a greater truth. Otto looked downcast, and Martin touched his cheek to get him out of his contemplation. “That’s it?”

Otto nodded. “I think so,” he said softly. He turned away to look at the room. Martin followed his gaze to a sideboard with some glass shards on it – someone had knocked over several picture frames. Otto turned them over, and Martin smiled a bit despite himself when they recognized their friends.

There was Hans, much younger than he was now, serious but looking intently at his Christel who sat next to him and smiled shyly at the camera. There was someone who seemed to be one of Christel’s sisters, a Bonhoeffer girl, at the arm of a thin young man who looked mildly amused – Rüdiger Schleicher, if Martin wasn’t mistaken. And Hans again, this time laughing at the baby in his arm who gave him a puzzled look. On his second arm, he held a toddler girl with a ribbon in her hair and more interested in her father’s sleeve than the camera.

Otto took the photographs out from beneath the broken cover glass, pocketing them. Then he stepped to Martin, pressing to his side in search for comfort or just because they were alone. Martin pulled him close without a word – he was choked up by that feeling they shared. Not happiness; they weren’t happy in those moments when they were so aware of their situation. But it was a feeling of _rightness_. Here was where they belonged, now, together, doing the right thing.

The fire had devoured the documents and died down, and in the dark, Otto raised his head a bit, his lips brushing Martin’s lightly as a whisper. “Thanks for coming along.”

There wasn’t much left to do. Otto covered the ashes in the sink with a lid to suffocate leftover embers, and they pushed the cupboard back to its place even though there was nothing left for it to hide. Then they locked the door and left.

* * *

They were silent during their walk back to the station and the ride home. Martin glanced at Otto’s bag a few times, but he wasn’t sure if he should ask. _You don’t tell much about yourself._ When they got out in the city center, they were welcomed by a gush of icy night air, and it was snowing again. Otto hunched up, shivering, and they walked quickly to get back to Charité soon.

“My father would sometimes ask where I was hanging around,” Martin said suddenly. Otto looked up. Martin wasn’t sure why he’d started in the first place, but he kept talking. “When I told him I was out with friends, he asked for the names. He must have noticed sometime that I didn’t go out with girls, at least not alone. But he didn’t say anything. He stopped asking eventually.” He could feel Otto’s stare on him.

“When I was arrested, I was told that my parents had been informed. I wasn’t of age, after all. But they didn’t come to the precinct, not for the interrogations and not for the sentence.” And all the time, he’d been sitting there, his head lowered, frightened, and whether he was twenty or not, some part of him had been screaming for Mama and Papa. “Afterwards, a few officers brought me home, gave me my uniform at the door and told my mother that I had to be on a train to Poland the next morning, punctually. The moment they were out the door, my mother grabbed the broom and started beating me.”

Otto inhaled sharply, and Martin could see him tensing up, his face a mask of anger. He had never once been beaten by his mother. Neither had Martin, up to that day.

“I thought she’d break my ribs. She was yelling – no idea what the neighbors thought, with the words she used. I told her to stop, but she didn’t. Not for a while. Father never said a word.” _He just watched, with that bitter, disappointed look. No shock, no rage. Just disappointment._

“When my mother was out of breath, she sent me to pack my things. Made me sleep in the stairway that night. Wasn’t comfortable; I had bruises everywhere. In the morning, Father was the first to come out the door, handing me a few sandwiches. Then my mother followed and said I should never come back. Never heard of them again. When I returned, I wrote to my father. That I was back in Berlin and about my leg. Got no reply.”

He fell silent, feeling queasy from the memory, from despair, from anger. Eventually, he had to stop walking; otherwise he would have vomited. His faltering breaths formed little clouds in the January air. There was a reason why he didn’t want to remember.

Otto’s fingertips grazed his hand, tearing him out of his spinning mind. Martin’s head jerked up, and he met Otto’s gaze, compassionate and sad, like he’d wanted to cry in Martin’s stead. And Martin wanted to kiss him – who cared, here and at this time, long past midnight, with nothing around them but a few streetlamps.

The air raid sirens tore through the quiet.

“ _Shit_ ,” Martin blurted out, and he tugged on Otto’s sleeve for a moment – a useless motion because they’d both started to run at the same time. The cold air cut into their lungs mercilessly, and Martin wished he’d quit smoking; as if the wooden leg wasn’t bad enough. When they reached Charité, all that kept him on his feet was the fear. He was relieved for a split second when they ran through the door, only to plunge back into panic because the hallways were empty. The usual bustle had already passed over. Otto hasted down the stairs to the shelter, and Martin followed.

But down in the cellar, they were presented with a sight that Martin hadn’t been prepared for, not even now: a locked protection door. Otto began pounding his fists against it, pale and shouting on top of his lungs. “Hey – _hey!_ Open the door! _Open_ –”

Before he could lose his nerves for good, Martin dragged him back. “The bulkheads are closed,” he said as calmly as he could manage. When Otto tried to pull away, Martin grabbed his shoulders and made him look at him. “Otto. They can’t hear us behind the second door.”

Otto blinked rapidly. A few seconds passed. Then he took a shaky breath. “Now what?” His voice was trembling a bit.

Martin thought that, so far, the hospital had never been hit. And the bedridden patients on the ward – they had made it every time. They’d go to Hans. “Come along.”

Halfway up the stairway, Otto caught his sleeve. “Wait – there’s Nurse Christel. She always stays on the ward during the raids.” Martin frowned at him, not quite comprehending – yes, that was a thing she did, but… “She’s been asking a few times how Hans is doing,” Otto explained, and Martin felt a shiver running down his spine. “If we go to his room now, she’ll have more questions.”

 _Dammit_. The confirmation that he could add justified mistrust to his list of reasons to dislike Christel wasn’t much of a comfort right now. “Alright,” he snarled and hasted further upstairs.

Before they got to the top floor, Otto had another objection, and he sounded very meek this time. “I… I really don’t want to bring that to your room.” He put a hand on his bag.

Martin glanced at him with a hint of frustration – what was about that bundle of clothes? – but he kept going. “The attic, then.”

“There’s an attic?“ Otto asked, puzzled.

Yes, there was an attic, and the ladder was still leaning on the way up, behind the last door at the end of the hallway. The dust on the separate struts didn’t show any fingerprints – that hadn’t been used in a long time. Martin gave the ladder a hearty shake, and there wasn’t too worrying a creak in response.

He passed Otto another glance. “Are you afraid?”

Otto was still pale, but he didn’t look as distraught as earlier. “Yes.”

Martin laughed briefly, with no humor. “Me too.” That said, he climbed up, wondering if an artificial limb and an old wooden ladder made for a good combination, but he reached the upper floor alright. When he opened the metal sheet door, Otto had caught up with him, following him into the attic room and setting his bag down by the door before looking around.

There wasn’t much to see – two empty, decrepit shelves at the left wall, a discarded radio, a few empty baskets and several stacks of holey blankets that looked quite like the ones down on the ward but were so threadbare that no one had bothered to patch them up anymore. One of them had been put to use to cover up the upper roof window while the view from the panorama window wasn’t blocked by anything but a few cobwebs. Otto glimpsed out on the city, increasingly shrouded by snow, sparks in the distant sky and fume in a dim red glow, before he tossed his coat, cap, scarf and gloves on the blanket stacks. Martin followed his example without commenting on how far off the suspect bag stood.

“Dusty,” Otto noted in a deliberately wry tone, probably to mask both their flinching when something crashed outside. “Doesn’t look like it’s being tidied up all that often.”

“Nobody’s ever coming up here,” Martin confirmed. A second later, he realized what he’d just said. He looked back to Otto who’d walked to the panorama window to look out into the night – Otto, warm and beautiful, here, _with him_ …

“Martin?” Otto looked after him quizzically when he walked back to the stairway and set to follow him. Martin pulled the ladder up to their floor. Provided nobody suddenly wanted to go to the attic during an air raid _and_ could find another ladder… they should be alone. Martin wasn’t sure if it was because of their fear of the bombing or because of the painful memory he’d disclosed to Otto or because of the shared silence during their clean-up in Westend. He only knew he wouldn’t wait another minute.

Otto reached him. “What are you…”

Martin slammed the door shut, locked it and turned over to Otto. A moment later, Otto’s back hit the wall, and he only managed a surprised sound before Martin kissed him, one hand knotted into Otto’s hair and one squeezing his waist.

Thing was, Otto was quick on the uptake, and he had made it known to Martin on several occasions that he wanted him as much as Martin wanted Otto. It took less than a second for him to respond, wrapping his arms around Martin to pull him closer. Outside, there was another bang, and Otto winced and kissed Martin harder, inadvertently thrusting the glasses into his face. Martin didn’t care; he was too busy kissing and at the same time coordinating his hands to unbutton Otto’s shirt.

Otto helped him, brushing his braces off his shoulders and sighing happily when Martin sneaked his hands under his shirt, greedy for the warm, naked skin beneath, the body writhing against him, pressing toward his touch. Next, he could feel Otto’s mouth at his neck and a huff because his collar and tie were in the way and Otto couldn’t reach as much of him as he wanted to.

Martin leaned in, only to flinch because his leg was, once again, of another mind than he was. Otto noticed and pulled back. Briefly, they stared at each other, and Martin suspected he looked at Otto quite the same way Otto looked at him, panting and with an expression of unbridled want. “Come on,” with that, Otto grabbed his hand and made Martin follow him.

They reached the corner with the shelves, and Otto kicked down the blankets, the stacks fanning out over the floor in an uneven but usable underlay. Otto dragged him down there, kissing him again, his fingers twitchy on Martin’s tie and then his braces. When he pushed his hand between Martin’s legs, unabashedly stroking his erection, Martin dropped back on the blankets with an uninhibited moan. And it didn’t matter _at all_ , because out there bombs fell and the world was ending, and in here there were just the two of them.

“Why do you have so much _stuff_ to get rid of?” Otto growled while pulling down Martin’s trousers.

Martin laughed, a bit muzzy. “Stuff?”

Otto rolled his eyes and fumbled with the prosthesis straps. “Tie, braces, glasses, belt, prosthesis – can’t you just…” The prosthesis came loose, and Otto set it aside with a peeved grumble but all the necessary care and took the opportunity to take off Martin’s shoe and his own. Then he was back on Martin, smiling smugly and a bit breathlessly upon the groan he got from him when he sat astride his hips.

Martin wasn’t sure when the hell Otto had taken off his trousers, because there were only their underpants between them now. Otto made a needy, whimpering noise and started rocking against Martin, too impatient to go slow, his movements accentuated by the far-off air raid. Martin shut his eyes for a second, gasping for air. He managed to ignore Otto’s pushing briefly, just long enough to sit up, put his glasses aside, shed his own shirt and Otto’s and draw him down on the blankets with a jolt.

Otto’s hands were back on him in an instant, wandering up and clinging to Martin’s shoulders as he rolled Otto over on his back. He kissed Otto again, a hungry and messy kiss without much delicacy, before moving on to his neck. Otto tilted his head back to give Martin access to his throat, giving him the opportunity to distract him for a bit by nibbling and licking on him. Then he spat into his hand and shoved it down Otto’s shorts, grabbing his cock firmly and getting a keen response when he started to rub him hard and fast. “Ah– Martin– _Martin!_ ”

It didn’t hold up for too long because, while Otto clawed a hand into Martin’s hair, he shoved the other downwards. Martin groaned when Otto pushed his shorts down. He kicked them off his legs, having Otto’s follow and scrambling back on top of him, their hips pressed flush together, and Martin could just about wriggle his hand between them. He spat into his palm once more before taking both their cocks in hand, holding them together and rocking against Otto rapidly. His second arm wreathed around Otto’s neck, and he pulled him as close as he got, listening to Otto moaning and panting his name. “ _Martin_ …”

The rest of it was a feverish delirium, them wound up around each other, unable to let go, grinding and pushing. Martin felt himself tensing up, and everything became so unbearably _hot_ – then Otto shuddered beneath him, his arms constricting tightly around Martin as he moaned one more time, a low, long sound that shook Martin to the core while Otto spilled himself over his hand. Martin whimpered, but he couldn’t stop now; he was so close– there was– _Otto_ , so warm and so close, everywhere around him – Martin muffled a helpless grunt at Otto’s shoulder as he came.

It took a while for him to become aware of anything around again, and first thing he noticed was Otto’s hand on his cheek, languidly caressing. Martin heaved himself off of Otto with some effort and rolled to the side. He wasn’t sure how long they were lying there trying to catch their breath.

Otto struggled to sit up halfway, fumbling for his coat and eventually producing a handkerchief which he used to clean himself provisionally and then folded it over and passed it to Martin. After Martin had scrubbed away the worst of the mess, he crumpled the handkerchief up and dropped it next to their makeshift bed. Otto hummed contentedly as he curled up at Martin’s side, pressing sweaty skin on sweaty skin.

Martin stupidly felt like he should say something. “Otto?”

Otto raised his head to smile at him, drowsy and happy. “Hm?”

For a moment, Martin thought in a flicker of instinct: _We can never do that again._ He’d almost started to laugh. Their track record for that was abysmal. “…we have to be careful, alright?”

“Promise,” Otto said quietly, apparently too exhausted for anything else.

“If we do something like that again, it’ll only be up here.” Otto nodded. There was nothing left to say, except for one thing maybe that Martin whispered when he pressed a kiss to the crown of Otto’s head. “ _Mein Liebling_.”

Otto tucked his face between Martin’s neck and chin. Now that they were breathing calmly again, quiet surrounded them. Martin stroked Otto’s neck leisurely, feeling the second heartbeat against his chest. Far, far away, the war kept on thundering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little trip to Westend is based on Hans von Dohnanyi saying in episode 4 to Otto that he wants to wear "the clothes from the hide-out". 
> 
> _Die andere Seite / The Other Side_ is a war-critical German film from 1931, and Theodor Loos didn't play the main character (that was Conrad Veidt, also worth a recommendation), but I just happen to like him as an actor and wanted to name-drop him. I can be a BIT self-indulgent. 
> 
> Furthermore, while the immediate surroundings of station Zoologischer Garten were badly wrecked by January 1944, I couldn't find info that said the station itself was out of order, so I ran with the premise that the trains there were still in use...? 
> 
> Also, when I write "curd potato pancakes", I mean "Quarkkäulchen". Some German readers may understand. It's one of the best dishes in the world. 
> 
> And there's no particular reason why I didn't translate "Liebling". It has quite the same connotation as "darling", I think; I just like the word better. It sounds softer. 
> 
> These are the photographs Otto and Martin find:  
> https://www.dietrich-bonhoeffer.net/fileadmin/media/archiv-neuer-bildband/d-bonhoeffer_nb_ruediger-und-ursula-schleicher.jpg  
> https://www.dietrich-bonhoeffer.net/fileadmin/media/archiv-neuer-bildband/d-bonhoeffer_nb_christine-bonhoeffer-hans-von-dohnanyi.jpg  
> https://img.abendblatt.de/img/hamburg-live/crop206992971/773871898-w820-cv16_9-q70-fnov-fpi227770079-fpotr/zgbdc5-5iq61txnqnm1kknqqntp-original.jpg


	9. Thoughts of Tomorrow

“Will we meet tonight?” Martin had asked this morning when they were bringing the DRK’s supply delivery into the house. It had been a few days since Otto and he’d had overlapping shifts, and the new bombing victims had kept them busy. Now, they were both on the morning shift, and Otto had only one lecture this afternoon, which seemed like a good prospect for cuddling in Martin’s room and talking about the Wehrmacht’s retreat from Leningrad.

But Otto’s shoulders had sagged in disappointment. “Can’t. I promised Anni to watch over Karin while she and Artur are out for a dinner with some senior doctors.” Then, a spark of hope had flickered up on his face. “You can come over, if you like.”

Martin had been about to protest – he had no business being in the Waldhausen flat, and it was not like he knew anything about baby care. But… well. It would still be time with Otto, if less physically affectionate. They could still see each other and talk, and not in the restricted way they had to keep up during work, leaving so many little things unsaid.

So, now, at 6 p.m., he stood before the Waldhausens’ door and knocked, although he wasn’t quite sure if he’d be comfortable here, with the couple’s presence notable everywhere and the lingering memory of the depressing evening when he’d found Otto drunk in the hallway. Then his tension suddenly gave way – a muffled curse was audible from inside, accompanied by a baby’s gurgle, making Martin chuckle.

It took Otto a moment to open the door, a grimy cloth over his shoulder and Karin on his arm, who was contemplatively chewing on her hand. Now Martin was really grinning. Otto looked exasperated, had milk stains on his shirt and something else, brown and smudged, that was better left unmentioned. He responded to Martin’s amusement with a grouchy expression. “Are you here to end my suffering?”

“How’s breastfeeding going?” Martin teased with a glimpse on the milk stains.

“You’re an ass – and _I’m_ a hero; I just successfully changed diapers,” Otto informed him loftily and went back inside, leaving the door open for Martin to follow.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” he asked when he shut the door.

“I asked Anni; she doesn’t mind. I think.” On the addition, Martin passed him a skeptical glance, and Otto shrugged it off. “I think she’s just trying to keep Karin’s scar a secret. But you’re not going to run to the Reich committee.” Otto had told him that Karin had probably been in surgery for something more severe than a hematoma. Martin could only assume that Anni’s boss didn’t know. De Crinis had his share of opinions on people with brain damages…

“Dammit, Karin!” Otto groused when he’d put the baby down on the table for a moment and promptly had to save her from taking a swan dive as she rolled over to her belly. “Can you hold her up sitting? I have to get her dressed; then we can eat.”

Hesitantly, Martin put the bread aside that he’d brought and stepped to Otto to prop up Karin’s head and back. There it was again, his insecurity about dealing with children, which was bigger the smaller the child was…

The girl looked up at him with her mouth open, and Martin couldn’t help his grin – she had bright blue eyes, like Otto, and her nonplussed look was kind of adorable. Karin laughed back at him, flashing a toothless smile. Then Otto went about his task. Dressing a four-month-old baby was, as it turned out, rather difficult. Karin didn’t exactly fidget all that much, but she managed to make a wrong movement always in time for it to cause a sleeve or sock to slip off just after Otto had been done with it.

“I don’t get how this kid is so _floppy_ ,” Otto complained, scowling at Karin who was busy trying to stuff her foot into her mouth, sock included, as if to prove his point. “You’re ridiculous,” Otto informed her. Then he noticed that Martin was having trouble to suppress a burst of laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re cute,” Martin admitted openly.

Otto made a face. “I have baby shit and milk spittle on my shirt. I’m _gorgeous_ ,” he retorted before ending the mission Dress Karin – and handing her over to Martin so he could go and wash himself. Karin squealed cheerily and grabbed for Martin’s glasses.

Eventually, Martin managed to stuff her into her basket bed and get her to clutch her blanket instead. He heard Otto quietly cussing at the sink while he tried to help out the stains on his shirt – Otto _was_ sort of testy. He hadn’t been this morning, but usually, a few hours with his niece wouldn’t eat away at his nerves, on the contrary. Perhaps there was something else.

But in that mood, Martin shouldn’t just start out with that. “Can I turn on the radio?” he asked instead. “ _Heimatdienst_ is on any moment.”

“Sure.” This time, Otto smiled briefly at him.

Martin searched for the frequency of _“Freies Deutschland”_ , Otto gave him a pencil and a writing pad, and while he set the table, Martin listened. He penned down the greetings of war prisoners that were directed to Berlin; he and Otto would pass them on to the rest of the staff tomorrow, and they would pass them on to their circles of friends, so, hopefully, the messages would reach the families concerned, informing them that their sons, husbands, brothers or fathers were alive.

Otto poured tea and glimpsed at the listing. “Someone you know?” he asked as Martin underlined a name.

“Not in person, but it might be Lottchen’s brother.” Otto sighed while cutting bread, and Martin added: “Better a prisoner than still out there.” Lottchen had once gushed to him about how tall and proud her brother looked in his uniform. Martin hadn’t replied that his image of a Leningrad soldier was a less than proud-looking figure, starved to the bones and plagued with frostbites.

Otto listened in silence as much as he did; only when the report on the Red Army’s recapture of the railway to Moscow was followed up by music, they ate, Otto with his chair placed between the table and the bed so he could occasionally rock Karin’s basket. Martin asked about Hans – Otto’d had the watch today – and learned that Hans was getting increasingly nervous, expecting Judgement Day and hoping for the Army Command to come to their senses and negotiate a truce on one front.

At some point, Karin had fallen asleep, their meal was ended, and Otto lost at Binokel again – however he managed to do that, seeing Martin’s cards because he had his head resting on Martin’s shoulder, one hand in his. Martin thought that, perhaps, now he’d be ready to talk about his bad mood. “Say, what was…”

Just then, the door clicked. Otto dropped his cards on the table and leaped up, getting the necessary distance between him and Martin when his sister came in without her husband. And even though Martin hadn’t gotten to ask, he got his answer – seeing Anni, Otto clenched his teeth and turned away, his tone a tad too cheery as he greeted her. “There you are. Lost Artur somewhere?”

“He’s still talking to Bessau,” Anni explained, tidying up her coat and hat and nodding towards Martin. “Good evening.” When she turned back to Otto, she looked a bit surly, too. “Can you please not listen to enemy stations in my place?”

Otto shrugged. “The music is better.” Still, he obediently turned off the radio. “Perhaps you should keep the frequency in mind so you can hear what I’m up to if I get lost out on the front.”

“Until then, the Soviets are probably in retreat,” Anni said, but she didn’t sound all that confident about it, and she stooped over Karin so her hair would hide her expression.

Otto looked up. “They’re not retreating, Anni. The war is lost,” he stated resolutely, making his sister flinch. She passed Otto a reproachful glare, but it didn’t hold up to his. Something hard and bitter had appeared in Otto’s eyes, so vitriolic that it startled Martin. He was used to seeing Otto as his cheerful, fun-loving sunshine… but he’d seen early on that Otto was gifted in hiding away his dejection. Why shouldn’t he hide away anger as well? There were reasons enough, for a soldier. For a dissident. For a homosexual. For a medic.

“You can’t say that, Otto,” Anni told him quietly.

“Because if we don’t say it, it’s less true,” he replied coolly.

By now, Martin felt immensely uncomfortable, and it was not because Otto talked about that sort of thing. It was because his rebukes had such a personal tone to them, were for his sister in particular. This here was something between the siblings, and he really shouldn’t be here. He stood up too hastily and was promptly punished with an ache in his leg. “Getting late; I better get going,” he blurted out.

Otto looked contrite, having noticed Martin’s unease. “Me too. We got the morning shift tomorrow.”

Anni wrapped up the leftover bread and gave it to Martin, and she tugged on Otto’s stained shirt when she accompanied them on their way to the door, smiling gingerly in an attempt to loosen the tension. “The medical officer of your company was there tonight,” she said in a conversational tone. “Talked about your year’s promotion in summer.”

Martin saw Otto’s face, his gaze fixed on the door for a long, long moment. Then he forced the chiseled smile on himself and commented blithely on Anni’s words: “That’s going to be some celebration.”

Anni eyed his smile and frowned slightly. “Mother asked if you’d bring a girl to the ceremony.”

Otto grinned at her. “Well, you, in any case.”

It went over so quickly that Martin wasn’t certain if he was just imagining things, but he could have sworn that Anni glimpsed at him for a split second. “Sure,” she said, and nodded. When they left and Otto shut the door, Martin felt a bit queasy – he couldn’t help but wonder if Anni’s standoffish attitude regarding him was really just because she was worrying about Karin.

As soon as they were a few steps down the hallway, Otto asked quietly: “Are you going upstairs? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Martin was a bit surprised – Otto didn’t seem to be in the mood for intimacies. But then, perhaps that wasn’t it. The attic was a sanctuary where they didn’t have to watch their every word, and maybe Otto just needed the safety to talk about his anger. And the distance from his sister.

When Otto joined him later in the attic, he was wearing a fresh shirt, and a smell of carbolic soap surrounded him. Martin was surrounded by his cigarette’s smoke and sat, prosthesis and tie shed, by the panorama window, leaning on one of the wooden beams. Otto sat down next to him on the blanket Martin had spread out, but he didn’t press to his side as usual.

Martin handed the cigarette over to him, and Otto took a drag – a bit more vehemently than strictly necessary, Martin noted. “Do you want to talk about Anni?” he asked.

Otto glanced at him, that hard, cutting something back in his eyes. “ _No_.”

Martin didn’t harp on about it – Otto never did when he was the one who didn’t want to talk about something, so he’d repay the tact in kind. He did miss his closeness though. Otto was usually very affectionate. When Martin stretched out sideways, leaning his head on Otto’s leg, he got a brief snort of laughter for it before a hand made its way through his hair, slow and tender. It was quiet for a while, and Martin just enjoyed the feeling of fingertips circling on his skin, the solid warmth beneath his cheek.

“There was a bus this afternoon,” Otto said eventually, “picking up a few patients. I saw them from Hans’ room. Most of them were psychiatric cases.” Martin felt his stomach turning into a cold, heavy lump. Otto looked at him when he gave the cigarette back, but his expression was difficult to read. “Anni helped de Crinis to load them into the bus for transfer.” There was the clenched jaw again, that glow in his eyes. It was disgust. “Do you know where they’re going?”

_I suppose Conti would know_ , Martin thought and muttered: “Bernburg, I think.” It was hard to tell after the official end of the euthanasia program.

Otto shook his head. “Sometimes, I just don’t get Anni. She’s still acting like none of that is her business, all while she’s still checking on Karin’s intracranial pressure.”

Martin stubbed out his cigarette. “What about you; are you worried?”

Otto took his hand, but he absentmindedly looked out onto the sleeping city. “I don’t know. Artur seems to be afraid of his boss. Anni says he’s hiding Karin from Bessau.”

Martin thought of the lively, mirthful baby Otto had been annoyed with a few hours ago. Now that the scar on her head was covered up by growing hair, Martin wouldn’t have guessed without prior knowledge that Karin had any ailments. “The kid seems rather chipper, though.”

Otto nodded. “Oh, yes. She has an appointment for a vaccination next week, diphtheria. When did you have your last booster?”

Odd question, but perhaps he just wanted to use Martin’s comment as a template for a subject change. “Diphtheria? That was… when I came back. A bit after my surgery.” Otto gave another nod without seeming to have listened. Martin squeezed his hand in an attempt to get him out of his brooding. “Speaking of Bessau – did you sign up for your exam at the pediatric ward already?”

“No, not yet. I’m up for gynecology this Friday.”

“So, what, don’t know your way around girls?” Martin needled him.

There it was, finally – Otto laughed. “About as well as you do, I’d say,” he remarked and leaned forward to kiss Martin.

“Don’t forget to tell the head nurse that you’re not on shift on Friday,” Martin reminded him.

Otto produced an unwilling grumble, not too keen on facing Head Nurse Elisabeth’s disapproval. “Can already hear the complaints.”

“The boss is glad that you’re finished soon, though. He said you could come back here to the surgery ward after your service. Become a junior doctor.” An excellent idea, Martin thought, although of course he hadn’t said that to Sauerbruch. He didn’t know what was to come yet, but he liked the notion of facing it together with Otto.

“Oh? Did he warm up to Waldhausen’s brother?” Otto quipped.

Martin shrugged that off with a huff. “You’re not Waldhausen’s brother; you’re _Doctor Marquardt_ , and you belong with us,” he decided.

And Otto’s lips were back on his, soft and warm. Martin could feel Otto’s smile at his mouth. “With _you_.” It sounded like a promise. Martin wound his arm around Otto’s head to hold him near and keep kissing him for a while. When they parted, his hand remained on Otto’s arm, not clutching, just grounding them both.

“I’ve thought a bit about the Doctor stuff,” Otto said. “I’d like to write my thesis on the taking-over of functions by the rest of the body after the loss of limbs, organs, or body functions. You know – Hans had an apoplexy and trained the use of his non-dominant hand. People go blind and learn to rely on their hearing. Or they lose limbs and perfect the handling of prostheses despite the lack of sensation in them. A kidney has to be removed, and the other is enough to live. Still vague, but that’s about the direction.”

Martin laughed. Perfected handling of prostheses? Otto had a tendency to perceive him as better than he was. “I like it,” he admitted. “Though it doesn’t really fit the Aryan ideal of a healthy human.”

Otto rolled his eyes. “Aryan ideal…”

“Yeah, you know,” Martin said wryly, “blond like Hitler, tall like Goebbels, slender like Göring, and chaste like Röhm.”

Apparently, Otto hadn’t known that one yet – Martin could both hear and feel his laughter. _So warm, so close_. He raised his head a bit to nuzzle against Otto’s chest, to his heartbeat. He liked the smell, carbolic soap and _Otto_. Both enticing and comforting. Martin thought to himself that this here was not a minor thing – it had never been. If they made it, it would stay that way. _They_ would be forever.

“What will become of us?” Otto asked eventually, gently.

Martin caressed his arm. What _would_ become of them? How would they live when everything was over? What would be left of the country? “I don’t know.”

“I love you,” Otto murmured, and Martin pulled him down to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... some domesticity, I guess? Not much happening in this chapter, but I didn't want to cut it out because it's the first time Martin thinks about a future together. Also because I wanted to go a bit into the conflict between Otto and Anni, so there.
> 
> DRK = Deutsches Rotes Kreuz (German Red Cross)
> 
> _Freies Deutschland_ = German-languaged, Soviet propaganda radio station; the rubric "Heimatdienst" sent greetings from war prisoners home to Germany to their families.
> 
> The siege of Leningrad ended on 27 January 1944; this chapter is set about in the first February week.
> 
> Karin's diphtheria vaccination - on research, I found that babies get combined vaccination at two months and then four months and eleven months old, so Karin would be due for the second round, but unfortunately that's applying a modern standard. I have no way of finding out how baby vaccinations were handled in the 1940s.
> 
> Bernburg = in this case, the euthanasia centre. After the _official_ end of the euthanasia program T4, it was still used for decentralized actions of the same sort.


	10. Things they do not need to know

Martin took the same seat as always, no exactly nervous – he knew the procedure too well by now – but just as tense as ever.

The police officer who had brought him in locked the door. Usual business; the inspector would let him wait for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Martin had learned not to be disturbed by the waiting in absolute silence. Early on, it had been unnerving, the memory of the interrogations about Theo appallingly familiar and the surroundings reminding him of his cell. He’d learned to ignore such thoughts.

Actually, he was even a bit absent-minded because he wanted to get home soon. Otto’s pathology exam had been today, and Martin hadn’t had a chance to ask him about it yet. Two soldiers and five bombing victims had been brought in, so he’d been late to leave the ward and had to hurry to get groceries before closing time, and Otto’s exam had been set for afternoon, so…

“Good evening, Herr Schelling,” a casually polite voice said.

Martin straightened his back and nodded towards the entering police inspector. “Good evening, Herr Leibfried.” Felt like school all over again.

Leibfried sat down on the opposite chair, opening the file he’d brought, and passed Martin an expectant look. “Well? How’s your week been?”

“Nothing unusual,” Martin replied. Leibfried raised an eyebrow. Being monosyllabic wouldn’t do. “A few comrades have been brought home from Crimea, Klausitz and Mayer. A hand amputation and a paraplegia.”

Mayer’d had a breakdown when Dr. Sauerbruch had explained to him that he’d never walk again. He hadn’t eaten for two days, but the morning before, Martin had finally gotten him to eat his breakfast. And then Mayer had talked about his two children and his wife who’d left the city for a safer place but would visit him soon, and about his wife hardly recognizing him with how he looked, thinner and more bearded and wrinkled than he’d been before, and about the _hunger_ out there, the constant hunger… even now, he didn’t manage to down all that much. Martin had listened. He couldn’t do much more, but more didn’t seem to be required.

Leibfried gave a short, dispassionate nod. “How’s your behavior towards your veteran comrades in the hospital, Herr Schelling?”

Martin suppressed a sigh. Of course, Leibfried would use everything he said as an introduction to roast him. But he couldn’t just _not_ answer. _Back then with Theo, every word had been a word too much._ “I’m doing my work.” The police already found it dubious to sit by a soldier’s bedside and listen to the poor nervous bundle. Somewhat unfair, because the female nurses were encouraged to be kind and compassionate.

The inspector passed him a pointed look. “Did your work bring you in physical proximity to your patients?”

 _Sure_ , Martin would have liked to say, _there’s nothing more sexy than helping a newly crippled returnee showering and wiping his ass after he took a shit._ Martin was used to this work and not bothered by it, but Klausitz hadn’t liked it at all, and he’d gone to physiotherapy with a sort of gloomy determination. “No more than necessary,” Martin said.

That searching glance again, and Martin sat motionlessly and reminded himself in silence that Leibfried was not omniscient. In fact, people in his field of occupation tended to be rather short-sighted. Without a prior lead – _like Theo_ – they didn’t really know what they were watching out for.

Last evening, he and Otto had been standing before the hospital smoking their cigarettes. Otto had been tired after a week’s worth of studying and helping out on the ward after lectures, so they hadn’t talked much. An occasional question, an occasional answer, but there hadn’t been all that much to talk about, and the quiet had been nice. Martin had scrutinized the shadows beneath Otto’s eyes, though, and wondered if he was having nightmares again, but he’d decided not to ask. If Otto wanted to talk about it, he would.

A small group of people had been coming their way, and Martin had pressed to the wall to let them pass. It had been two couples, two men each with their girlfriend at their arm, having a vivid discussion and ignoring Martin and Otto. Although Martin noticed something about them when they’d walked over: The girls were walking side by side, flanked by the men, and for a moment, one of the girls reached out for the other’s hand, and her friend’s fingers twitched in reply as if she wanted to take her hand.

Martin had quickly looked at the men who were in turn looking at each other, for a split second only, and one of them smiled – the sort of smile Otto had for him. It was such a tiny thing, so minute, but it was noticeable if one was used to hiding. He’d glanced at Otto who was just lowering his head to hide a smile as well. That hadn’t been lost on him, either.

But that sort of thing was probably too subtle for Inspector Leibfried. “You still seem to avoid female company, Herr Schelling.” A malicious smile.

“Not at all; I helped the girls with the laundry just last Sunday,” Martin replied placidly. Of course, this was not what Leibfried was going for, but he could accuse hardly Martin of impudence over such a statement.

One corner of Leibfried’s mouth jerked, in a bout of amusement or in quelled anger. He still went into the subject. “Which ladies would that be?”

“Nurse Laura Hertzold and Nurse Angelika Grüne.” The presence of an Otto Marquardt hadn’t been asked about.

Martin didn’t like folding laundry better than anyone, but the afternoon had been fun. The four of them had been quick to get the work done, chatting and joking all the time, and afterwards, Laura and Angelika had made tea, and they’d sat in the courtyard together, enjoying the longer days and the first warmth and light of spring. He had played cards with Angelika, both of them now and then adding a comment to Otto’s and Laura’s conversation that had started out with last week’s _Wochenschau_ and somehow ended up with Tucholsky.

Another smirk from Leibfried. “But you didn’t ask either of them out?”

“No.” He had met Otto in the attic later though to let himself be stripped naked – but that was none of Leibfried’s business. It was also none of his business how Otto had looked up at Martin when he’d had him on his back, panting and sweaty and with a blissful, beautiful smile, what sort of noises he’d made when Martin had moved down his chest and stomach, scattering kisses all over him, and that he’d stifled an outcry on his hand when Martin had taken his cock in his mouth.

Otto had been dazed and exhausted afterwards. Martin had thought about kissing him, but hadn’t been sure Otto would like that immediately after… He’d stroked his hair from his forehead instead – until Otto had clutched the nape of his neck to yank him down, slamming Martin’s mouth on his with more vigor than delicacy.

“Your turn?” he’d asked later, when he’d been back to breath.

Martin had smiled. “Have you done that before?”

Otto had shrugged, caressing Martin’s right leg. “Well, no, but…”

“You don’t have to. It’s not to everyone’s liking.”

On that, Otto had huffed and hurled him over to his back – if there was one thing he believed in, it was reciprocity.

Martin stared down at the tabletop and tried to think of something else. It was not the best time to blush.

Leibfried seemed displeased. There was that teacher attitude again. _Performance: inadequate._ “Still no intentions to marry, then,” he noted, and Martin had practiced long enough to not feel tempted to give a spiteful answer.

Much later, Otto and he had been lying with their arms around each other, and Otto had told him of his mother’s most recent news. His request to get to visit Allgäu had been declined; so they had phoned instead, and Otto’d been happy that his mother was really proud of his first passed exams. Martin was proud, too, though he wasn’t sure he could say that without sounding silly. He’d nuzzled to Otto’s neck and thought that he could spend the rest of his life like this, holding Otto and listening to him. There _had_ been a question he hadn’t dared to ask yet… Intentions to marry? “No.”

“And outside of work?” Leibfried kept probing. “You certainly weren’t on the ward permanently.” He didn’t have anything to go on to. Whoever had ratted him and Theo out had been much more specific about facts and timing.

“The student working on our ward had his internist exam on Monday,” Martin offered after a moment of hesitating. If he kept too quiet, the inspector got suspicious. “Was interesting; it was about typhus and the potential secondary infections.”

Leibfried’s facial expression was difficult to read. Martin supposed he didn’t find the subject all that _interesting_. His next query hit close to home. “How old is your colleague?”

 _Damn it. Careful now_. Martin shrugged. “No idea – early twenties? Never asked him.” Otto was twenty-four years and six days old. Martin had apologized for not getting him a present, but Otto hadn’t cared. He didn’t really seem to care all that much for his birthday altogether, for that matter; he’d muttered something about schoolmates and soldier comrades who’d never reached that age.

Of course, one could wonder why that was of importance. Theo had been eight years older than him, and neither of them had ever cared. For Leibfried however, a similar age was ground for suspicions. Martin braced for things to get worse – _How often do you see him outside of work? Have you looked at him in an undue manner?_ – but apparently, he’d sounded indifferent enough. Leibfried went on to the next routine question, and Martin quietly let out a bated breath.

* * *

He lit a cigarette when he left the precinct – it was always the first thing he did after the interrogations. By now, the process was three years old to him, but it still ate away at him. Always the same questions, always the same contemptuous stare. Always the same suspicions. And, aside from minimal changes, he always gave the same answers. He’d once wondered if a girlfriend might be easier than the utter isolation he’d chosen instead – but the risks were greater than the benefits. Had to be nice, though, to have a confidant, he thought when he remembered the two couples from the other evening.

He shuffled home, frustrated. The damn thing about Leibfried was that he was _persistent_. Perhaps he was not even wrong with that; after all, Martin had fallen head over heels for Otto after such a long time. But the inspector didn’t know that; he simply held onto the _possibility_ , waiting patiently for Martin to step out of line… The notion to be watched and interrogated for the rest of his life was wearing him down.

His moping was replaced by puzzlement and then by worry when he came into the courtyard – two women were sitting on the stairs, talking despite the late evening. One of them he recognized, thanks to her coat and hair, to be Christel von Dohnanyi; the other, wearing a nightshirt, had to be a patient. Frau von Dohnanyi looked up when he approached them and stood up to walk a few steps towards him.

“Martin – I found the girl out here when I was leaving,” she told him, glancing at the young woman on the stairs with some concern. “She doesn’t want to go back in; she’s scared the house might collapse in the next raid. I didn’t go and get a nurse – I thought she might run away if I left her alone.” Quietly and a bit awkwardly, she added: “I don’t think she’s… uhm… quite there.”

The young woman had slung both arms around her legs, her head bedded on her knees. She looked pale and miserable, and her nightgown didn’t cover a foot in a cast. Martin knew her; Edith Vogt had been hurt during the last air raid – a wall had pretty much crushed her foot. No wonder she was distraught. Or woozy, for that matter.

“She’s got a head full of painkillers,” Martin explained, and Frau von Dohnanyi nodded in understanding. “Thanks for keeping watch. I’ll take care of her.”

Frau von Dohnanyi smiled gratefully and wished him and Fräulein Vogt a good night as she left.

Martin held his hand out to Fräulein Vogt. “Shall we go back inside? Still a bit chilly this time of night.”

Fräulein Vogt looked at him and shook her head, seemingly distressed. “No,” she whimpered, hiding her face on her arms again. “If the Tommies attack, we’ll be buried here.”

“Nothing will happen,” Martin assured, although that was an empty promise to some degree. “When the sirens go off, we head for the shelter room. Nothing has ever dropped down on us there.”

Another headshake, another fearful gaze. “I can’t run fast enough,” Fräulein Vogt said quietly.

Martin wondered how she’d gotten out here in the first place. The medicaments had apparently not been enough to let her sleep, but enough to numb the pain. He didn’t want to think about what that little walk meant for her newly reconstructed foot.

“You don’t have to. At the first sign of trouble, I’ll get Otto, and we’ll carry you downstairs. How’s that sound?” After a moment, Fräulein Vogt smiled shakily, and when Martin reached out again, she took his hand. He drew her up, and they limped into the building side by side.

Martin looked to the nurse office, hoping to get Nurse Mathilde’s attention to inform her about the wayward patient – but to his exasperation, it wasn’t Mathilde who had the night shift but Nurse Christel who shot out the door to the hallway immediately to get details on the situation. Once she had those, she passed Fräulein Vogt a frown and Martin an accusing glare. “She’s not supposed to put weight on her foot yet!”

 _And you’re reproaching me for that because…?_ “Well, I didn’t ask her out for a dance,” Martin said wryly. Christel looked surly, but she took on bringing Fräulein Vogt to her ward. “Make a note for the doctors,” he reminded her, “they’ll have to readjust her dose on analgesics and sedatives.”

Christel vaguely nodded her okay, but her expression let Martin know that he was dismissed. Fräulein Vogt muttered tiredly: “Good night, Herr Schelling,” and let Christel take her arm to lead her to her bed, meek as a lamb.

“Night, Fräulein Vogt,” Martin said, and added with a way too friendly grin: “Night, Christel.”

Christel stuck her nose up in the air and turned away without a word. Martin laughed to himself as he left. _Poor_ Christel had to put up with inferior creatures like _him_ …

His amusement didn’t last. Now that he hadn’t anyone to take care of, his exhaustion and glumness caught up to Martin again. After the interrogations, he tended to be awake and brooding all through the night. Upstairs, he stood still before his door.

He didn’t really feel like staring at the lampshade for hours, haunted by the memory of his arrest. He wanted to feel safe and sheltered, not guilty, and he wanted to think of Otto, not of Theo. Following the impulse, he went around the corner to the attic staircase.

His heart leapt a bit – the ladder stood ready for going upstairs. He hadn’t left it like that. The usual troublesome climbing ensued, and when he’d reached the upper floor and pulled the ladder up, he discovered the curled-up figure by the panorama window. “Otto?” No reply.

Martin clambered over the wooden beams to the back of the room, finding Otto asleep on a blanket on the floor. An open medical book lay forgotten beside him, and also a stack of neatly folded clothes that the moonlight revealed to be his uniform. Needle and thread were lying on top of it; Otto had probably been mending the hems. And removed the Fähnrich insignia – they were lying beside the stack, waiting to be replaced with those of a medic which Otto would be given after graduation.

The sight kind of stung. When they were together, they usually acted as if there was no goodbye, as if they could go on like this forever… and right now, he didn’t want anything else, he decided when he looked at Otto, sleeping peacefully after a demanding day. He set his glasses down on the wooden beam, got rid of his prosthesis, and crawled over to Otto.

When he slung his arm around him, Otto stirred, raising his head a bit and murmuring: “Martin?”

Martin stooped over him, pressed a kiss on his cheek and whispered: “ _Liebling_.” Otto let his head drop back on the blanket and scooted a bit backwards to lean against Martin’s chest. A moment later, his deep, steady breaths suggested that he’d instantly dozed off again.

Martin drew him close, burying his face in the nape of Otto’s neck and shutting his eyes, his frustrated exhaustion replaced with a warmer, more pleasant sort of fatigue. He wanted it to always be like this – he always wanted to fall asleep next to Otto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much a character study, my little fic here, and that's kinda why I like this chapter - got me the chance to show Martin in a few interactions with other people than Otto and Anni.


	11. Gnawing Insecurity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a while, but we have a heat wave going on, so my brain is mush. There's some sex going on, so you might want to skip part of the attic scene, although the last three paragraphs are of a bit importance.

Martin wasn’t entirely sure what had peeved him so.

Perhaps it was just the harsh contrast. A relieved whisper in the dark, “there you are”, a smile, Otto’s arms and lips welcoming him, an interplay of tenderness and impatience, desire and surrender. The familiarity at night, a kiss in the morning. And then the cold distance at day, their talks meaningless as soon as someone could hear them, the curt professionalism, the necessity to call each other “Schelling” and “Marquardt”. He _knew_ how important all of that was. He’d told Otto so often. It still frustrated him sometimes.

Admittedly, it had also been enervating that the raid had been just the night before the Sauerbruchs left for Switzerland – the ward was a mess, and the OR was understaffed in the afternoon.

Well, and then there had been the question Martin still hadn’t asked.

He’d thought of it. When he and Otto had been done straightening each other’s clothes, when they had looked out to the burning city, huddled together in the attic, sharing a cigarette and exchanging thoughts about the aircrafts and destruction strategies of the Brits, he had thought of it. When Otto had said he wanted to sleep without fear, “and get woken up by you in the morning”, he’d almost blurted it out. He’d kept quiet. Had leaned to Otto’s side and hoped that there would be a Tomorrow, a Later, an After-the-war… a time when Otto could sleep without nightmares.

Of course, there had been one more thing – Nurse Christel. Her venomous comment on the traumatized woman who she thought was simulating had been annoying enough, but now _she was flirting with Otto. Again._ And Martin wanted to scream with anger.

Otto put up his bright smile – it was no more than skin-deep, once one really looked at it, but it was cheerful enough to fool most people. Most girls. It sure fooled Christel; she still looked after Otto when he shoved the bed with the patient down the hallway.

Martin reminded himself that they couldn’t talk all that often in public. Then Otto passed him, and Martin jilted reason to give in to his impulse instead. “Nurse Christel is laying it on thick. Do you have to give her hope, too?” he growled.

Otto’s reply consisted of a shit-eating grin and a twinkle in his eyes. “Jealous?” He didn’t take it seriously. But perhaps he’d noticed Martin’s surly face, because he added: “It’s the best that could happen to us. Deceive and disguise, my dear.”

And with that, he was gone, and Martin was left with an unwell feeling in his gut. _Deceive and disguise?_ He didn’t want to think about it. It called an ugly, toxic thought to mind – that it would be easy for Otto to do what Martin had never been capable of. To find a girlfriend and act out “normalcy”. To pretend what he couldn’t have with Martin: a safe romance, endorsed by the rest of the world. A spouse.

That the idea of such a deception might be appealing enough for Otto to… _No._ That wasn’t right. Otto had said, the best that could happen to _them_ , not to _him_. He wasn’t masking himself, but both of them… but how long would he until Martin became a burden to him?

“Martin, are you asleep?” Nurse Anna waved her hand before his nose to get him out of his thoughts. “Fräulein Vogt needs to be taken to physiotherapy, and you’re to help Charlotte in the OR cleaning the instruments.” Martin nodded, and Anna passed him a stern look. “With all the fuss going on, we can’t afford to daydream!”

Martin smiled wryly. “Yes, Mama!” He dodged the playful smack with the clipboard that Anna tried to give him, and went back to work. The churning feeling in his stomach was still there.

* * *

He tried not to think of it while he helped Fräulein Vogt with her leg exercise and brought her back to bed; he tried to talk to Hans blithely while dishing out meds. He tried to cast the thought out while he was making the beds with Anna and Mathilde. Still did by the end of work.

When, at the weekend, Otto had finally time to come around for dinner again, something of the thought had remained. Otto wasn’t helping spreading the usual good mood, either – he was sullen and quiet, not relieved as he should have been after the psychiatry exam.

Since they didn’t really get into a talk, Martin went about querying medical knowledge instead, but after Otto had to be snapped out of his thoughts for the fourth time to give an answer, he just slammed his book shut. “Screw it,” he snarled and lit up a cigarette.

Martin watched him. It was the third tonight. And he’d barely eaten. So much for a soldier’s hunger. With a sigh, Martin rested his head on his hand. “So, what’s the matter?”

Otto looked up, a bit perplexed. “Hm?”

“You’re in a mood as if you’re out for the Eastern front.” And in a bout of passive aggressiveness, he added: “You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

Now it was Otto’s turn to sigh. “Strife with Anni,” he said. A moment passed in silence. From the apartment next door, a baby’s soft whining was audible. “She doesn’t care about anything,” Otto muttered. “As long as it’s not about her – now that Karin is well, the rest of the world is not her business.” He restlessly tapped his fingers on his medical book. “Anni acts as if everything is alright. All the patients that never come back… she says they’re just treated somewhere else. That they get help. In Bernburg, at Sonnenstein.” A disdainful scoff. “People disappear all the time. Because they’re schizophrenic or old or… like us…”

Martin looked up in alarm. “Did you say that to Anni? People like us?” he demanded.

“No, of course not,” Otto retorted. “I’m not stupid; I’ve been doing this for a while.”

“Obviously,” Martin replied, still with Otto and Christel in mind, and it still stung.

Otto raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Martin got up, avoiding the petulant gaze on him by going to do the dishes. And yet, he couldn’t leave it be. “Deceive and disguise – Anni acts like there’s just nothing, and you go and flirt with anyone in skirts,” he snapped viciously. It wasn’t fair, and Martin regretted his words the second he’d spoken them. Perhaps Otto hadn’t heard over the running water…

But he wasn’t that lucky; Otto jumped up. “ _What_ now?” he asked sharply.

Martin turned back over. Otto glared at him. Why ever _he_ thought he had to be angry – _Martin_ didn’t go about gallivanting all the time when Otto could see it. Or at all. “You don’t miss an opportunity to rub it in my face that you can just have a woman anytime!”

Otto’s cheeks blushed in a blotchy red, and there was the clenched jaw again. “I’m watching out for you, you ungrateful moron!”

“You still saying that when you’re walking down the aisle to Christel?”

“I went out with her _one time_!” Otto hissed.

Martin laughed derisively. “Well, _she_ didn’t get the message!”

He only noticed how loud he’d gotten when he heard the Waldhausens’ door; he and Otto both flinched. Muted voices sounded from beyond the wall; Anni and her husband were talking.

Otto passed Martin a furious scowl and marched to the door.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, feeling miserable. _Why_ had he harped on about this? When Otto opened the door, Martin left the dishes to themselves and limped over to the bed to drop onto the mattress. _Goddammit_. The silence weighed him down, heavy and nauseating.

Then, Otto locked the door again from the inside. “Martin.” His voice startled Martin a bit, a cracking, distressed tone as if he was about to cry, and as Otto turned over, he looked incredibly forlorn. “Please– can we– can we talk about it?”

Martin felt a weight lifting from him. _Yes_ , for heaven’s sake – he wouldn’t have been able to leave it at that. He scooted a bit aside, and Otto sat next to him. It was quiet again, only interrupted by Karin’s far wailing. Martin took a deep breath, but he didn’t know where to start.

It was Otto who talked first. “So… I’m angry with Anni, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. That was not right. I… I’m sorry I talked to you like that.” He wound his hands around each other and glimpsed at Martin. “But you aren’t exactly happy, either. Is it really because of Christel? I mean, who cares about her? It doesn’t bother you when I’m talking to Nurse Anna or Nurse Laura.”

That was true. “Anna and Laura are nice girls who don’t look at you like they want to eat you,” Martin said, still somewhat prickly.

Otto sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “But she’s no different. You know– you must know that I don’t want anything to do with her. Dammit, Martin.” He threw his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Did I give you a reason to think of me like that?”

And Martin wanted to blurt out, _yes, you have – you’re kind and sweet and smart, funny and gentle and ludicrously pretty, strong and healthy, an Aryan showcase model of a man, every girl’s dream, and if you wanted something else than me, you’d just have to turn around and find girls lining up for you, each of them someone you could introduce to your mother and pledge to forever, not some cripple with whom you have to hide in the attic_ … but that was nonsense.

Because Otto had never once said he wanted something else than him. Nothing of that was grounded in anything Otto had _done_. Yes, he was friendly to the girls – but he’d always been, and Martin knew that there wasn’t anything about it. “Fine, so maybe I am jealous. More than I should – because I don’t trust Christel any further than I can throw her.” Otto had said himself that she’d been snooping around Hans. “You find her suspicious, too. Why do you have to flirt with _her_?” Miss Warning Files, of all people.

After a moment, Otto set his forehead on Martin’s shoulder. Martin put a hand on Otto’s arm. It wasn’t quite a hug, but his nearness was a comfort. At least his idiotic fit of jealousy hadn’t ruined everything.

“Because I think Christel isn’t harmless is exactly why buttering her up might be more helpful than anything else,” Otto explained.

Martin laughed weakly. Should be reassuring, really, that Otto was so calculating when it came to his façade. “Only she thinks there’s more to it, doesn’t she?”

Otto pressed a kiss to Martin’s clothed shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured.

“And I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” Martin conceded. “I’m sorry.” Otto leaned in to him, and Martin drew him closer. “Come here.” He lay down, pulling Otto down on the mattress with him.

Otto helped him take off the prosthesis; then he put his head on Martin’s chest and his fingers roamed upwards to caress his hair. Martin caught his hand and kissed it. It was quiet again, although not as awful a silence as earlier.

“How was your exam with the old vulture?” Martin asked when he remembered.

“Passed,” Otto said softly. “Could have sworn he’d flunk me, after what was with Lohmann.”

“You don’t seem glad,” Martin noted.

Otto tucked his face under Martin’s chin. “You remember the woman Christel got into a huff about? She was my exam patient. And after confirming my opinion on her condition, de Crinis said she’s to be referred to Bernburg because she can’t be treated here anymore.”

So, that had been the cause for his spat with Anni. “Maybe she’ll get better,” Martin said in an attempt to sound comforting. “Some comrades needed a few weeks to get back out from their holes. Me too.”

He’d blurted out the last part without thinking, but it made Otto wince and instinctively put a hand on Martin’s leg. “After the surgery?” Martin could feel his fingers through the fabric of his trousers, on the scar tissue.

“The Wound Badge protected me.” He’d wanted to say it lightly, but he didn’t manage. The days just after the amputation had been the worst, the infinite emptiness, dulled only by the analgesics.

Otto’s fingers clawed into Martin’s shirt, just above his heartbeat. He didn’t say anything. They hardly ever talked about the front, but they both knew what was to know.

For a while, they kept lying there together, and Martin would have preferred it if Otto could’ve just stayed altogether, but they couldn’t risk someone seeing him coming out of Martin’s room in the morning.

With a sigh, Otto got up from the bed, took off Martin’s glasses and kissed him. “See you tomorrow after the lecture?” he asked, and Martin nodded, immensely relieved.

Otto sneaked out, and Martin noticed how tired he was – that argument had cost him some energy.

Next door, Karin was still whining. Although Martin thought he heard something else, too, while he dozed off – sobs, someone actually crying, not a baby, but a woman. But before he could muse over it, he fell asleep.

* * *

It was over the course of the next week that Martin reached his epiphany. The trigger was a former comrade – Martin didn’t really expect to meet people from the army alive anymore, but…

“Martin?” a voice asked that he didn’t recognize immediately, and he looked up from making beds, surprised. A man in uniform stood before him, looking a bit worn-out, one arm in a sling, and grinned at him. “Martin Schelling? 72nd Infantry Division?”

Martin grinned back as he remembered. “Opitz! Didn’t think I’d get to see you again!” Rainer Opitz hugged him laughingly, and Martin noticed the missing hand. “Crap, how did _that_ happen?”

“Festered bullet fracture,” Rainer said lightly and shrugged it off. “Could be worse – could’ve been the right.” He stepped aside to let a nurse pass, but didn’t interrupt his chat. “And you, how’s the leg doing?”

Martin showed him his prosthesis. “Training for the Olympics,” he said, and Rainer laughed, seemingly relieved about his carefree tone. “Are you here for a prosthesis fitting?” Martin asked while folding bedclothes.

“Yes – not a fully movable one, though,” Rainer said. “Can’t afford a Sauerbruch hand. Say, when’s your work done? I just got my food stamps; we could go out for a beer.”

Martin wanted to say no – he and Otto would meet tonight. “Actually…” But it was so rare for him to see an old friend again, and when Otto came into the ward, he seized the opportunity to ask. “Otto?”

Otto, shoving a trolley with infusion bottles, looked up and then came over. Martin introduced them: “Otto Marquardt, field medic – Rainer Opitz, 72nd ID.” They gave each other a handshake, Rainer with a smile, Otto with a quizzical glance to Martin.

“I wondered if we could put tonight off for a few hours. Rainer just invited me.”

“Ah,” Otto said, looking a bit lost. He glimpsed at Rainer for a moment and then back to Martin, frowning for a split second before he hid it again.

“He can just tag along,” Rainer offered.

Otto smiled a tad too brightly. “No, better not. I should study for my exam anyway.” With that, he took his trolley and returned to work. “You two have fun!”

He left, and Rainer gave Martin a pat on the shoulder. “See you later, then.”

* * *

They had a nice evening. Rainer told about a few comrades who were still fighting bravely, and Martin contributed _Heimatdienst_ messages from prisoners who could hope to return home someday. It wouldn’t go on for much longer, Rainer said – although he was rather relieved to be out of the nightmare himself.

Beaming with joy, he showed Martin a photograph of his wife with their baby, his little son whom he’d only met a few weeks ago and whom he adored. “Birgit complains because he’s crying so much, but frankly, I can’t imagine a more beautiful sound to wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“I can imagine,” Martin said. He was glad Rainer didn’t put him through the motions – asking about Martin’s plans regarding marriage and children. Instead, they talked about the frontlines, Martin’s work at the hospital and Rainer’s new job.

“Desk work – and I can’t even type; they have me for filing away and stamping documents.” Even that complaint was half-hearted at best.

A bit of Rummy and beer later, Martin said his goodbye and had Rainer pass his congratulations to his wife. At least he could tell Leibfried next Friday that he’d been out for some healthy, heterosexual bonding with a male friend, he thought on his walk home and laughed about the sardonic notion.

Back at Charité, he took a look into the prosthesis workshop, but found it abandoned. A few minutes later, he found Otto in the attic, reading his medical books in the dim light of an old paraffin lamp. He looked up and smiled briefly when Martin greeted him with a kiss. “Well, did you have fun?”

“Yeah; just think, I found someone who’s better at playing cards than you,” Martin teased. “And you’re… keeping the illustrious company of books.”

“Have to; Sauerbruch will have my head if I botch the exam for his ward,” Otto noted. He still put the book aside to lean to Martin and take his hand.

Martin nuzzled Otto’s hair. He liked the smell. And the warmth. And it wasn’t too late yet; perhaps they could…

“Your friend – that was a comrade from your unit?”

The question didn’t really match up with Martin’s line of thought. What did Rainer have to do with anything? “Yes, from the Balkans.”

Otto nodded. “He looks nice,” he said without a particular emphasis.

Martin blinked. The wording was kind of odd. Otto hadn’t said, he _seemed_ nice. He looked…? Martin pictured Rainer. Yes, he supposed he didn’t look bad, albeit older than he was – most soldiers looked older when they came home. A nice smile, certainly, but…

“You seem to know each other well,” Otto said, sounding a bit strained.

And Martin realized that the familiar tone between him and Rainer had irritated Otto. He also realized how incredibly ridiculous his jealousy of Christel had been – because he couldn’t help but find Otto’s jealousy ridiculous. As if he was sweet on Rainer, what a colossal nonsense. He belonged with Otto, and… Otto belonged with him. Everything else was wrong.

Giving in to his impulse, Martin hugged him closer, and Otto hid his face on his throat and wound his arms around his shoulders. “Yes, I’ve known him a few years – we’ve both had our service in Bulgaria,” Martin said. “And I really don’t care about him beyond a handshake and drinking a beer together.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Otto muttered, sounding defensive. Martin grinned, but he tilted Otto’s head back to kiss him, and Otto responded fiercely to it, his fingers clawing at Martin’s collar. It didn’t last long, though; Otto let go of him a moment later and stood up. “Come on.”

Shortly thereafter, Martin landed on their makeshift bed, Otto on top of him with his mouth on Martin’s neck while he fumbled with the tie. Martin wanted to help him, but Otto pushed his hands away with an indignant grunt. Shrugging, Martin settled back and let him – if Otto liked undressing him, he wouldn’t object, especially not now that Otto nibbled his way up his collarbone and alongside his neck to his earlobe and then back down. Martin sighed happily when Otto unbuttoned his shirt and shoved his hands beneath it, warm and firm on Martin’s skin. He sat up for a second so Otto could take the shirt off of him, but dropped back pretty instantly to let himself be caressed.

By now, Otto had put his knee between Martin’s legs and ground it up against his crotch. Martin had a good mind to go along, but he could hardly move with the way Otto was leaning on him. The little shit was probably doing it on purpose, too. Martin grasped the blanket beneath him and tried to strangle a pleased moan in his throat. He failed – much to Otto’s glee; he laughed and continued to tease Martin mercilessly with his teeth, fingers and legs, constantly moving on him.

At least Martin got his hands a few inches under Otto’s belt to tug the hem of his shirt out. Otto took the hint, let go of him and undressed quickly, and Martin took the moment to shed his shoes, socks and glasses. But before he could loosen his prosthesis, Otto threw him on his back. “Can you not?” he growled, a bit miffed, but Martin laughed, pulling Otto up close to kiss him. Much better, now that Otto was naked – Martin loved all that warm skin on his, Otto’s muscles at every movement… and Otto didn’t hurry. He was much calmer and more patient when it wasn’t an air raid they spent together.

And he was possessive, too, Martin thought with wry amusement when Otto bit him a little more harshly than usual in the crook of his neck, probably leaving a teeth mark, only just low enough for it to be covered by his collar. But after the last week’s fuss, Martin was more happy about it than anything else, so he cradled Otto’s head in his hand and pulled him closer, encouraging him still.

Otto bit him again before he started moving down along Martin, dropping a kiss on his chest every few inches. Martin grunted in relief when Otto opened his trousers and stripped him of them – and then he cussed not relieved at all when Otto licked along his cock and closed his lips around it. The sheer intensity of the sensation blindsided Martin, hot and wet and unrelenting. He would have cried out if Otto hadn’t reached for his hand. Martin felt Otto’s thumb circling through his palm and gripped his hand, too tightly perhaps, but he was grateful for Otto giving him something to hold onto.

Otto kept going, unhurried and gentle, while pulling down Martin’s trousers with his free hand. He fumbled with the prosthesis’ straps for a moment, then the pressure around Martin’s leg gave way, although he could hardly focus on that – the pressure of Otto’s tongue on the tip of his cock was much more present to him. He kicked his trousers to the floor; then he spread his legs further and surrendered to Otto’s persistence again, although he at least managed to get the condoms and ointment tin they stored between the blankets.

He started panting when Otto began massaging him with one hand, but then his fingers roamed further back and pressed between his butt cheeks. Martin faltered. So did Otto, passing him an inquiring glance. They had done this a few times, but only ever with Martin doing the active part, so to speak; Otto had never… but it was not like he didn’t know how to go about it, and Martin trusted him.

He sat up, tugged Otto close for a kiss and gave him the ointment before turning over, propping himself up on his elbows. Otto straddled his legs without putting his full weight on him. Martin took a breath and eased up as much as possible when Otto slowly pushed a finger into him, an inch only, before he pulled back and repeated the procedure with ointment. It wasn’t unpleasant, albeit unfamiliar – Martin tried not to think about how long it had been.

Otto still took his time, but eventually, he had Martin arching up beneath him, moaning and trying to meet his movements. His whimpering got him a hesitant question. “Should I stop?” Otto’s voice sounded strained, and it hadn’t been lost on Martin that Otto tried all the while not to press his hard cock up against him.

“No, for heaven’s sake.” He felt Otto’s hand on his shoulder and put his own on it. “You can–” Right. Condoms. Martin passed them on to Otto and followed it up with a helpless, needy grunt when Otto slowly pulled his fingers out of him. His muzzy, oversensitive mind came up with the question if Otto had ever even used a condom.

But before he could ask, Otto caressed his waist. “Can you look at me?” he asked quietly, his voice unsteady.

Martin hastily flipped over to his back and smiled up at Otto. He liked it better this way, getting to see the desire in Otto’s gaze and being able to put his arms around him when he shoved himself onto Martin. Otto kissed him again, tiny, soft kisses on cheeks and mouth and temples, and Martin noticed how sweaty he was… and shaky. He was nervous to do something wrong, he realized. Martin tilted his hips back to make entering as easy as possible. Then he took a deep breath, Otto took a deep breath and reached down to press his cock into him.

He and Otto both groaned, and Otto hid his face on Martin’s shoulder, out of embarrassment or because it was just so damn _much_ – Martin had an idea how he felt. The pressure inside his body, his muscles reacting to Otto’s every motion, and warmth everywhere…

“Do-does it hurt?” Otto stammered.

It took Martin a moment to answer, not because he hadn’t caught the words, but because he couldn’t quite breathe right. “No… is alright,” he insisted, although that wasn’t fully true. Otto whimpered and pressed a kiss to Martin’s neck, but he didn’t move otherwise. Martin was grateful for that – he was completely tensed up.

While he tried to even out his breathing, Otto wriggled a hand between them and started stroking Martin’s cock, slowly and softly, like an afterthought. Martin dropped his head back and shut his eyes, focusing on Otto’s fingers on him, a constant movement, back and forth… He slowly began to rock towards him. Otto noticed and picked up on it, thrusting in shallow, careful shoves. Martin was overcome by a surge of affection and gratitude – had he been so gentle when Otto had given himself to him for the first time? He hoped so. 

Now that he wasn’t wound up from head to toes, he managed to wrap his leg over Otto’s hip and push a bit on Otto’s butt. Otto gasped and thrusted more fiercely, and Martin felt a hand burrowing in his hair, greasy with ointment. Otto had wanted to look at him, he recalled. He cradled Otto’s face in his hands and pulled him up, bumping his forehead to Otto’s, and there were eyelashes tickling his face when Otto opened his eyes to Martin, dark and hazy, and Martin held his gaze and smiled at him. Otto smiled back and kissed him, both of them moaning at each other’s lips because Otto didn’t interrupt his steady rhythm, but got faster.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been at it – it couldn’t have been too long, with Otto barely holding back, with Martin all but losing his mind in his embrace because he could feel Otto everywhere, each move and each breath.

Martin had forgotten about caution at that point. That sensation, Otto’s hand on him, Otto _in_ him, the perpetual grind, the heat. He wanted _more_ , and Otto kept _giving_ , each thrust harder and deeper inside him, causing Martin to make a stream of noises he would’ve found embarrassing if he’d had a chance to think about it. He didn’t think. He just felt, immeasurable lust and then bliss when the glowing white feeling suddenly gave way and he relieved himself on Otto’s hand.

Otto whimpered feebly, clutching Martin’s thighs with both hands and going faster. His hips clapped hard against Martin’s, the slow, restrained pace of earlier long forgotten. Martin wound both arms and his leg around him and pulled him close. Otto groaned in his ear, a bursting keen, and thrusted forward one last time. Martin just sighed happily and held onto him during his climax. Then Otto collapsed on top of him, out of breath.

It was quiet for a while. Martin idly caressed Otto’s arm beside him. Only when he reached for his hand, Otto moved. “Martin – are you…”

“I’m fine,” Martin said and meant it, but he still gasped when Otto pulled out of him. Alright, so maybe he was a bit tender – but he didn’t think that was a good reason for Otto to draw back to unburden him. Martin held him back. He wanted to keep him here. He wanted… “Otto?”

The reply came a bit belatedly and somewhat meekly. “Mhm?”

“After the war – will we live together?” He wanted to follow it up with arguments – Otto could have the room next to his when Doctor Jung went back to France, or they could look for a flat; many students lived in shared flats, and there was a lack of places anyway after all the air raids; nobody would say a word…

But Otto didn’t even ask about that. “Yes.” That was all he said, simple and resolute.

Martin wondered if Otto had understood what he meant – that he’d asked this because there was another question he couldn’t ask. Otto’s hand wandered over to his, but instead of grasping for it, Otto hooked his ring finger around Martin’s. He had understood. Martin shut his eyes and squeezed Otto’s waist with his arm. _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it happens, the basis for me writing Martin as having a bit of a jealousy issue isn't even his huffiness in episode 4, but his expression in episode 5 when Christel proposes to Otto.
> 
> I actually read up on the history of condoms to decide whether or not they would use them. Thing is, Otto and Martin both have served in the army, and use of condoms was encouraged among German soldiers during WWII, albeit discouraged among civilians, and with them both being medics, they would easily get them - and be aware of the risks if not, and since Martin had a fling with a soldier that one time, I found it justified. That's... a lot of thought for a throwaway line.


	12. Nothing left to say

The worst was probably how calmly Hans took it. He barely showed a trace of concern, as if he’d accepted it all a long time ago. “The clothes from the hide-out, as arranged?” he asked, and Otto nodded, pale and dejected. Martin heard Dr. Jung discuss outside the door with the officials, sounding upset.

“My papers…” Hans looked to the nightstand. “They have to disappear before they search the room.”

“We’ll burn them,” Martin said hastily.

Hans looked somewhat sheepish. “There are a few letters. For Christel and the children.”

Otto nodded. “I’ll bring them.”

Martin ground his teeth so as not to yell at Otto. Christine von Dohnanyi was under surveillance since last summer; he couldn’t be so stupid… but Hans and Otto shared a glance, and Martin knew that arguing would be pointless. That was a thing between dissidents. Martin loved Otto, but he wished he’d keep his oppositional impulses better in check. Hans was arrested before their eyes, and Otto ran straight into the next peril.

They helped Hans with the suit and tie. He was quiet, occasionally attempting a smile that didn’t look quite right. Martin couldn’t help the morbid impression of dressing up a corpse for the funeral.

Then there was a knocking on the door; the squad from earlier was back. The two Helpers placed Hans on a stretcher, and he didn’t resist – of course not. Not like Martin and Otto did anything but stand and watch. Immeasurable fury made Martin’s temples throb, but the fear was stronger. He saw Otto clenching his jaw, lowering his gaze to hide the hatred in his eyes, clutching the nightstand behind him with both hands.

They had hoped for the end of the war, for the demise of the Nazis. Hans still did, and Martin had to believe he was right – he wanted to live, they all did, wanted a future after the downfall. But the price they’d pay… _Is this worth it?_ he wondered as Hans was carried out. _Is this worth the fight?_

Kutzner looked rather pleased. “Very well; good to have this business finished,” he said cheerfully and gave Dr. Jung a companionable pat on the arm. “Have a nice day!” With that, he marched out.

“ _Connard_ ,” Dr. Jung muttered under his breath, pinching his nose bridge and squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again and turned over to Martin and Otto, he looked weary. “Please, can you…” He waved towards the bed, but didn’t end his sentence. With a glum shrug, he left, and gently closed the door. Martin would have slammed it.

For a while, it was quiet. The usual hustle in the hallway sounded strangely distant. Eventually, Otto took a deep breath and pulled a tied-up folder out from behind the nightstand. Martin felt reminded of their nightly foray.

“The suit–” he started.

“His wife used the clothes to smuggle bacilli. She sewed a fresh dosage into the sleeve. That was why I asked you about your vaccination after we were in Westend,” Otto explained. He didn’t look at Martin, busying himself with looking through Hans’ folder. “He told me in January. He wants to try and contract diphtheria when they arrest him.”

Martin looked up in alarm. “In his state? That can kill him!”

“He says it’s better than being executed.” Otto nearly whispered now. He still looked down at the letters, notes, drawings Hans had made – a self portrait and one of his wife. Two friends they’d never see again.

Martin struggled a bit with the thought that Otto had knowingly aided Hans’ suicide. He wasn’t all that shocked, although he thought it _should_ upset him more. But – wasn’t it really better? Hadn’t Martin himself said so, about Lohmann?

He noticed Otto was crying, and there was nothing he could have said to comfort him. He only could go to him and fold his arms around him. It was not enough, and it didn’t change a thing, but at least Otto untensed a bit and leaned to him.

Then the door clicked, and they hastily let go of each other. Martin grabbed for the pillow, and Otto flapped the blanket over the folder as he faced the door. Upon seeing Christel who vaguely smiled into the room, Martin quelled an irritated noise. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Changing the bedding,” Otto replied, his voice sounding raspy.

Martin pulled off the pillowcase and the sheet, passing Christel a surly glance – what, did she think they had to have three pairs of hands for that? Christel repaid his scowl in kind and went out without shutting the door. Martin did it in her stead. They needed the quiet for now. “Think she noticed something?”

It had hardly been a serious question; he’d just thought aloud. But suddenly, Otto looked at him, his eyes wide with panic. “Martin, we can’t go on like this,” he said urgently. “If they find us out, they’ll take you to the camp.”

Confused, Martin blinked. What was that now? “I’ll take that risk,” he said; wasn’t that obvious? What else was all the trouble good for, the hiding, hoping and dreading, if not for them to be together?

Otto shook his head. His eyes were full of tears again. “I can’t do that. From now on, we’re only comrades, and nothing more.”

Martin stared at him while the meaning of these words seeped into his mind, heavy like tar. _No. No, no, no, don’t do that; not now, not after everything. Not after I already chose you, after I learned to live with the fear_ … But Otto made his way past him, hiding Hans’ papers beneath his coat, and mumbled: “It’s safer that way,” before he fled the room and shut the door behind himself.

Martin remained alone and staring into the void. He wasn’t sure what he felt. Disorientation, perhaps. Somehow, he’d been so sure that he and Otto would spend their further lives together. He only realized now how much he’d relied on it – how much he’d relied on Otto’s determination. Otto had always been so _certain_ about everything. When he’d confessed to him, he hadn’t doubted, and when Martin had asked him about their future together, Otto had acted like it had all long been decided.

And now… Martin noticed he was trembling. He wanted to yell at something, or cry, and the effort not to just got him a headache. How should he… how could Otto… he had always, always been above this fear; nothing had ever happened to them… _Something did happen. Hans has been arrested, and he’ll die. There’s no way around that. Of course Otto is afraid. Do you want to become to him what Theo is to you – a constant uncertainty about what happened to him, an unending guilt?_

Finally, he remembered that it was early in the day and he couldn’t just stand about. There was a lot to do; he and Laura had to bring a load of laundry out and get a fresh one. He had to help Nurse Charlotte with the paperwork; two patients were to be discharged today. He had to pick up the new blood supplies from the DRK. Just work – and ignore the queasy, heavy feeling that weighed him down.

It was what Otto wanted.

* * *

_As if_. Martin brooded over whether he’d be able to live with it any better if he could have believed it. If Otto had just dumped him out of disinterest – after confessing his love too soon and then finding it wasn’t worth all that much.

But Otto was miserable. He was pale and quiet and lost in thoughts, withdrawn and working listlessly. Martin supposed it was for the most part because of Hans, but the looks Otto passed him were hard to miss. Two days now, they’d been doing their work silently next to each other, like they had just after Christmas, and Martin understood belatedly how hurtful his behavior had to have been for Otto.

Still, he couldn’t blame him. He knew that fear so well – he’d been living with it for years.

Martin took a drag from his cigarette and pulled his coat tighter around himself. It was a beautiful morning, and summer had reached Berlin, but he still felt like freezing. Purely psychosomatic reaction. And a stupid one at that, since this was nothing but a return to normalcy. He’d spent years like that before an Otto Marquardt had come into his life – hadn’t he even wished everything would be back to normal when he’d noticed that he’d fallen in love with Otto? He hardly remembered. Right now, all he knew was that something was missing. And hurting. _It’s alright. Just needs a bit of time. Don’t remember._

A car entered the courtyard. Martin recognized the boss’ vehicle, but he wasn’t in the mood to be glad about it. Although he was somewhat bewildered to find the Sauerbruchs saying goodbye to Kobow with a smile and greeting him cheerfully.

“Martin, what are you looking so woeful for?” the professor asked when he and his wife reached the stairs.

It dawned on Martin that the two of them weren’t up to date. “Don’t you know– hasn’t Dr. Jung told you yet?” So, now _he_ had to herald the bad news. “Hans has been arrested.”

Sauerbruch’s smile froze. “ _What?_ ”

“Two days ago,” Martin said. “De Crinis confirmed he’s transportable.”

Dr. Sauerbruch looked dismayed. The professor on the other hand came up with rage. “Aren’t you lot good for _anything_?” he barked at Martin and rushed into the building.

“Sorry about that, Martin,” Dr. Sauerbruch said and hurried to follow her husband.

Martin wasn’t all that bothered by the gripe, firstly because that was just Sauerbruch’s manner. Usually, it even calmed Martin when the boss was yelling – because as long as he was yelling, he could handle just about everything. But the second reason he shrugged on it was because he felt like it was right – he really wasn’t good for anything. Useless, helpless, powerless.

He stubbed out his cigarette and trudged back inside just when the head nurse came out of the nurse office. “That was Friedrichshain,” she told the nearby staff. “A load of soldiers have been brought in from Normandy, and their beds aren’t enough. We’ll get a dozen, so it’s overtime again.”

Sighs all around, although no complaints.

“I modified the OR schedule, postponed a few appointments for the pediatric ward. Someone has to go and inform them,” Head Nurse Elisabeth added and looked at Otto who just joined them with a batch of used wound dressing. “Otto, do you want to do that? Nurse Antje said they have your niece back on the ward; you could go check on her.”

 _Shit_. Otto looked like someone already gone down who was still being kicked. Martin just wanted to bring him to the attic and let him sleep for a few days or weeks.

But of course, Otto nodded and took the schedule, and Martin took the dressing materials from him to dispose of them. His hand brushed Otto’s, and Otto flinched, turned away and left.

* * *

Martin had been assigned for the morning shift, but with the new load of patients, it was already dark outside when he could go. He didn’t mind. The work helped him not to think.

The only other thing that helped a bit were the cigarettes – and he was running short on them. Morosely, Martin examined the leftover four. He wouldn’t get new ration stamps before next week. Perhaps he’d get some at Alexanderplatz; the black market was on a roll…

The snapping noise of a lighter had him start and look up. Sauerbruch leaned to the outside wall next to him and handed a lit cigarette over before lighting one up for himself. Martin muttered his thanks, and the professor grunted some incomprehensible reply. Unhappily, Martin eyed his boss who, by now, looked just as done with everything as Martin felt. “How’s Heidecke?” he asked; Heidecke had been the last soldier up for an emergency surgery tonight.

“Dead,” Sauerbruch said curtly. “Pulmonary embolism in the OR.”

Martin didn’t know what to say to that. There were those days when the blows just kept coming. Jung had mentioned that Hans was at risk for an embolism, too. They didn’t even know if Hans was still alive… “I’m sorry, Professor.”

“Cut it off.” Sauerbruch shook his head, his voice sounding harsh. “What would you have done, attacked them?”

Martin thought of Otto, with clenched hands, a strained expression, ready to scream. “Maybe that would’ve been better.”

Sauerbruch slowly exhaled a puff of smoke. “We’re medics, Martin. We don’t harm people, and we take care.”

Martin knew he was right. In times like theirs, the job and its ethos were all they could hold onto.

“Where’s Marquardt?” Sauerbruch wanted to know. “He wasn’t assisting. Head nurse said he’s left early, but there was no lecture today.”

“Visiting Frau von Dohnanyi. He wanted to bring her a few letters,” Martin said in a muted voice and only after checking for additional listeners.

“How’s he coping?”

 _It frightened him, really frightened him_ , Martin thought, _one of the most fearless people I know_ , and said: “Not well.”

“Hans liked him,” Sauerbruch noted, a bit absent-minded.

 _Who doesn’t_. “Now what?”

It was quiet for a few seconds. Sauerbruch took his last breath of smoke and stubbed out the cigarette. “We’ve got more patients,” he grumbled. “The war keeps going on, and so does Charité.” With that, he shuffled back in to get ready for the ride home.

Martin went for a walk. He didn’t want to go anywhere and he didn’t dare leave the area at this time, but he thought if he’d just go back in, he might well explode. Instead, he walked up _Luisenstraße_ to _Robert-Koch-Platz_ , only to turn over and wander towards _Lehrter Bahnhof_. He would have preferred to run, just to really feel his leg for a change, but he knew he’d regret it come next day.

Eventually, he rested against the fence for a moment. What was left of the station concourse loomed up before the nightly sky as a minimally darker silhouette, only just visible. Martin wondered how long after the war it would be until the station would be operating again. He’d sometimes thought about leaving for some other place, and never coming back. But then the war had been everywhere, and the notion had lost its appeal. And after Bulgaria, he wasn’t even sure he’d endure another place than Berlin ever again. Martin closed his eyes. Otto had told him of Allgäu, had wanted to take him along for visiting his mother…

The gate towards the way down to the docks creaked faintly, and a man entered. Martin was almost immediately certain that it was Otto, despite the dark civil clothing that disguised him – there weren’t many people around so late in the evening. Well, and the man leaned his back to the fence and then just dropped to the floor to curl up. Otto was probably _not_ the only person around who was exhausted and desperate, but when Martin walked to him, he looked up. It _was_ Otto, and he didn’t look well. Unshaven, tired, his face a mask of sorrow.

“Martin,” he whispered. His desolate, jaded look reflected how Martin felt. At least he didn’t run away.

“It’s late. You should go in.” He took Otto’s arm and dragged him to his feet. When they were on the same eye height, Martin noticed the smell of cheap beer around him. “Are you drunk?”

Otto seemed to contemplate the question briefly, but then he shook his head. “Not much.”

Martin let go of him, and Otto stood on his own and started walking towards the surgical ward, if slowly. Well, Martin wouldn’t complain. “How’s the kid?” he remembered to ask.

Otto didn’t answer for a while. When he did, he spoke very quietly. “She’s been reported as disabled. Bessau wants Artur to inform the Reich committee.” Martin faltered. So did Otto. He wavered for a moment and then stumbled over to the next bench to collapse on it, covering his face with both hands and whimpering something Martin only understood when he’d caught up to Otto and crouched before him. “I can’t do that… I can’t do that anymore…”

Martin took Otto’s hands to pry them off. “Please, look at me – Otto, _Liebling_ …” He hadn’t meant to say it. It had just kind of slipped out.

Suddenly, Otto’s mouth was on his, and Martin didn’t even know who’d started it – he only knew neither of them _stopped_. Otto sighed, sounding half relieved, and clutched him, and Martin gripped Otto’s hair and tugged him closer– _loveyouneedyouwantyou_ – it was a messy kiss, tasting like smoke and beer, but it gave Martin this feeling of rightness he hadn’t had in days, the feeling to be grounded.

Until Otto recoiled. “Shit,” he blurted out, and Martin became aware of where they were, that he couldn’t kneel before Otto here and kiss him. “I–I’m sorry,” Otto stuttered.

“Don’t be.” Martin stood up as quickly as his wooden knee would let him and brushed some dust off of his trousers. “Don’t stay out here all night, please,” he managed to say before he hasted back to the dorms of the surgery ward. He didn’t run into anyone on the way, but the moment of carelessness had been enough to remind him of the lingering dread.

He still thought of it when he’d locked himself into his room and crawled into bed. Thought of the cell. The days of interrogations. How the inspector – it hadn’t been Leibfried then; Martin didn’t remember the name – had informed him with a genial smile that Theo, found guilty as a repeated seducer, had been transferred to Sachsenhausen.

That last one had broken Martin. Suddenly, he’d started pleading. Theo hadn’t seduced him, he’d insisted; he’d never been intrusive, had never done anything Martin hadn’t allowed… and when he’d been done, there had still been that awful smile. And Martin had realized that he’d made the confession the police had been working towards for almost a week. And that nothing he could have said would have saved Theo.

“Well, you seem to be a sensible young man,” the inspector had said. “I suppose you won’t indulge your abnormality again. The consequences would be dire. But at your age and with your confession, there are mitigating factors and a good chance of parole.”

After that, there hadn’t been much left to be said. He’d kept his silence during the sentence and while he’d been released from prison, getting assigned to Army Group South. _Don’t remember._

Martin opened his eyes and looked past the lamplight to the ceiling. He did remember the feeling of helplessness. The same Otto had to endure now – there was nothing he could do to help his niece. Or Hans. There was nothing _any_ of them could do.

* * *

Days passed. A sort of normalcy returned, and Otto at least pretended to be alright. Martin did his best to do the same.

Otto and he occasionally talked at work, and they could be in the same room without being tense. They weren’t all that often, but it was enough for Martin to cling to Otto’s words. _“Only comrades, and nothing more”_ – he could do that. He would be the reliable colleague and friend Otto needed. He and Laura made use of the breaks to test Otto’s exam knowledge, and Martin covered up for him when Otto went to look after Anni and Karin.

“No, Herr Marquardt will _not_ do the morning shift on Monday,” Dr. Sauerbruch just said insistently to the head nurse, and of course the name called up Martin’s attention. “He’s got his exam with the boss.”

Otto’s last exam – and he’d been nervous about this one. “Say, Doctor, can I go and see Marquardt’s exam?” Martin asked and was a bit ashamed because it was a tad manipulative to ask the doctor when Head Nurse Elisabeth was around. The latter opened her mouth to refuse in indignation.

But Dr. Sauerbruch only glimpsed up from her files for half a second. “Sure. Mathilde can fill in for you; you’re taking the evening shift, then.”

Head Nurse Elisabeth glowered at Martin, and he quickly made his way out.

After work, he looked for Otto – just to wish him good luck and tell him that he should eat sometime, Martin reminded himself sharply. But Otto wasn’t in the workshop, lectures were already over, and when Martin considered asking Anni about his whereabouts, he saw her coming down the hallway with her husband, and Otto usually avoided being around Artur Waldhausen. Martin did notice, however, that Anni looked just as pale and upset as her brother – the look of someone who just barely kept it together.

He made a mental note to ask Otto about Karin again when he made his way up to the attic – why ever; Otto had probably gone to buy groceries or was with his fellow students. There was no reason for him to be up there since the attic was _their_ meeting point, and they didn’t meet anymore, not like that anyway…

Otto was there nonetheless, and Martin couldn’t help but be glad to find him in his usual place by the window. He didn’t turn around when Martin closed the door.

Martin went to him, awkwardly scrambling across the wooden beams as usual. Otto hadn’t said anything yet, but that was alright. Martin wouldn’t hug and kiss him, but they could still talk. After all, they had done that in the beginning, too, just sat together talking. A little out of breath after the clambering, Martin dropped down next to Otto and held out the slice of bread that was left over from his break. “Are you hungry?”

He hoped he didn’t sound too artificially carefree… but Otto didn’t even answer. He looked at the void before him, blinking rapidly and pressing his lips together. Like he wanted to cry and tried not to.

“What’s the matter?” Martin asked in alarm. But then he saw the letter, the Wehrmacht cross on the envelope. Suddenly, he felt cold. _No_. He jerked the envelope from Otto’s hand, and Otto let him. No, that couldn’t be right.

“They’re summoning me,” Otto murmured, just as Martin had unfolded the letter and his eyes had caught the words _“conscription order”_ , making his stomach contract painfully. “I’m sent to the Atlantic Wall.”

Martin didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. There had been so much these past days that he didn’t know why he was still surprised. They’d taken disaster after disaster, leaving Martin to question dimly if, after all of that, there was something he just _couldn’t_ take. That was it. The one thing he wasn’t able to bear – to lose Otto for good.

He reached out for him and _thank God_ Otto allowed it, let Martin hug him. Otto’s arms wound around Martin, and he could feel him shaking.

 _What have we been hoping for?_ Martin wondered bleakly; what had they been _waiting_ for? For the war to end, for everything to pass over before Otto graduated, so that he didn’t have to go… they’d hoped in vain. The war continued, and it claimed its tributes.

* * *

That evening, Otto followed Martin to his room. Martin didn’t say a word of protest. What was there left for them to lose? He locked the door, he and Otto helped undress each other and went to bed.

Not that either of them could sleep – for hours, they were lying there holding each other. It wasn’t about sex. It was about memorizing one another, each detail. How the hair on Otto’s arms felt when Martin caressed him there. That Otto’s right hand was a little more calloused than the left. The small, innocuous scars he had – a tiny one beneath the hairline where his sister had hit him with a brush once, the appendix scar on the side of his stomach, a wound at his knee that’d had to be stitched up after a bike accident when he’d been eleven years old.

Martin wondered if Otto would come back to him like this, all but flawless, or if the war would damage him beyond repair. He was horrified of the possibility of Otto losing a hand – Martin wouldn’t love him any less for it, of course, but Otto wanted to be a surgeon. Instinctively, Martin pulled him closer. He _should_ be a surgeon. Germany would need him, would need anyone like him when the war was over, when it all had to go on somehow. Otto was a doctor, not a soldier – he’d be a wonderful doctor if only they’d let him.

There was a more selfish thought beneath that, simpler and much more painful. Martin wanted to see him again. He wanted to feel his heartbeat, like he did now, hear his breaths. Otto had told him they’d live together, and Martin still wanted that.

“I’ll come back, Martin,” Otto said, his voice rough and barely audible. “I’ll come back, and we’ll be together.”

Martin buried his face in Otto’s shoulder and wanted to believe him – wished Otto would believe it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ain't that a cheery chapter. You shouldn't use the word _Connard_ towards French-speaking people btw; it's a pretty hefty insult. Also, _Lehrter Bahnhof_ is the predecessor of Berlin Hauptbahnhof (main station).
> 
> It appears I have to move, which is both psychologically and financially a disaster for me, so while I have the rest of this story lined out and will try to post the next chapter as soon as possible, the lovely about 15 interested readers might have to wait for a bit longer because... yeah, I'm seriously busy right now.


	13. I'll be seeing you

Otto had been having a lot of nightmares the past days, but at least that wasn’t obvious looking at him. His lurking panic on the other hand was obvious as he struggled for words, and watching his exam became almost painful – because Martin had repeatedly gone through prosthesis fitting with him. He _knew_ that Otto knew his way around the subject.

Sauerbruch had to know, too; after all, Otto had been his OR assistant for several weeks by now. But to set a war hero in front of him and demand him to make a diagnosis on him hadn’t helped.

Otto slowly turned away from Stauffenberg and looked at Sauerbruch. “I don’t know,” he admitted sheepishly.

Martin watched tensely how Sauerbruch frowned and took a deep breath. And then he asked questions – small questions that were easy to answer, some of them only requiring a “yes” or a “no”. Otto answered them, visibly relieved, and found his way back into the field. It wasn’t the first time that Martin thought they’d been lucky with their boss, cranky and full of himself as he was.

Just when Sauerbruch let Otto off the hook, the alarm went off. Martin hastily followed the rest of the audience out of the hall to return to the surgical ward. The patients were upset; usually, an air raid wouldn’t take place in broad daylight. Head Nurse Elisabeth sent him upstairs with Charlotte and Angelika to clear the upper floors.

Meanwhile, Christel started an incensed debate with Dr. Sauerbruch who wouldn’t allow her to stay on the ward. As Martin passed them with his group of patients, he heard her snap: “If you’re unable to follow your superior’s instructions, you’re out of place! Make yourself useful!”

Christel pursed her lips and scurried downstairs to receive patients down in the shelter and sit them down.

Eventually, the dull clang of the protection door sounded behind them as it was shut. Martin felt a tinge of petty irritation – there went an occasion to spend some time alone with Otto.

But the thought ebbed off when he discovered Otto in the crowd who’d taken care of his batch of protegees, dropped on a bench and looked out for him. At least they were safe down here, and when Martin came over to him, Otto smiled and scooted aside.

“Survived it alright, Doctor?” Martin teased him, sitting next to him and pressing to his side.

Otto scrubbed one hand across his face. “That was a disaster,” he groused. “I gave them a right comedy show.”

“Who cares about your stage fright? You passed,” Martin insisted, trying to console him.

Otto looked surly. “Only because Sauerbruch was dead-set on pulling me through.”

A crash roared outside the shelter room and made the lights flicker. Frowning glances met the lamps; then the silence was filled with whispered talks again.

“You can do that. We’ve been through it a hundred times – and I saw you in the OR; you’ve got the hands of a surgeon.”

At least that made Otto look a little less disgruntled with himself. “But Anni will rub each wrong term I said in my face for the next hundred years.”

“You can still stay here as a donor, then,” Martin suggested. “I can run a tube into your vein anytime.”

“Sure you’ll do that. Leech!” Otto retorted, although his indignant act didn’t hold up against his grin for long.

Martin laughed, too, but quickly refrained from it when he caught Nurse Christel’s glare from the other side of the room. _If it was up to her, Otto wouldn’t talk to anyone but her ever again_ , he thought huffily. Otto was still friendly with her, but he kept it in a more comrade-like, casual manner. Only the message didn’t get through – Christel seemed to believe she could stake a sort of claim after one sole rendezvous. Martin sighed quietly. He’d promised Otto to tone down the jealousy, so there.

Another bang, louder and closer this time; the entire building was shaking. This time, something just above their heads burst – and the lights failed. “Crap,” Martin hissed spontaneously. Somewhere in the dark, Sauerbruch added his own curses. A hand gripped for Martin’s, and after a moment, he twined his fingers around Otto’s. Who cared – the room was pitch-black.

“Do you think that was the upper floor?” Otto asked quietly and a bit too close; he’d put his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“I’d like to say no,” Martin replied. If the surgical ward had been hit directly, it was possible that they’d have to evacuate the building.

Otto moved, and Martin felt a pair of warm lips on his neck. He wasn’t sure if he should be exasperated or amused. _Are you serious, Otto?_ There were at least four dozen people around them.

The little shit still got a chuckle out of him because his relentless nibbling tickled Martin in a sensitive spot. He gave Otto a playful smack on the head. “Cut it off, you big child,” he whispered. Otto’s grin was hard to miss even in the dark, but he curbed his affections. He didn’t quit holding Martin’s hand, though, and Martin didn’t feel like forbidding that, too. Tomorrow, Otto would be gone.

“Got called to the Generaloberstabsarzt,” he confirmed when Martin asked about it. “I’m to come to the caserne this afternoon, together with the other graduates of my year.”

Martin felt something of a sting. “Today?”

“Yes. Sauerbruch will sign the confirmation later that I made my last exam so I can be given my diploma as soon as possible.” Otto squeezed his hand.

Martin knew it was an attempt to comfort him and wished Otto would just not – it should have been him who comforted Otto. But coming up with something cheerful wasn’t easy when he was haunted by horror scenarios at night. Baumann or Schmitt, bleeding out under his hands. His dreams sometimes turned them into Theo, but more often into Otto. “Can you sleep?” he wanted to know.

It took Otto a while to answer. “A bit. Never for long,” he said. “You?”

Martin opened his mouth, only to find how difficult it was to admit. “Not all that well.”

They both tried to handle it like adults, to pull themselves together, but, truth be told, they didn’t cope well. He could only assume that everything would go on, somehow, when Otto had left, but _how_ … he didn’t know. Realistically, they had only spent a few months together, but it should have become a lifetime.

* * *

“Martin, you’ll move into the prosthesis workshop – Marquardt’s leaving anyway,” Sauerbruch later commented on the redistribution of the staff quarters, and Martin went out of gratitude toward the professor for the day. _Leaving anyway_ , what an easy phrasing!

Sullenly, he went to pack his belongings on the demolished upper floor while Otto left for the caserne. Martin wondered if it’d be a comfort to sleep in the bed that had been Otto’s so far or if it would make his nightmares worse. He was stuck in a loop of going over all the ugly possibilities.

Otto would die at the front.

Otto would be taken prisoner and come back only years later, bitter and starved and unwilling to live.

Otto would return, but without his legs.

Otto would come back, burnt beyond recognition and frightened beyond repair.

Otto would return without a scratch – on the outside. No wound, no new scar. With an empty stare, silent or in a screaming frenzy, like Franke after his last combat in the mountains. He’d screamed until he had fallen unconscious, and then they’d had to tie him down and keep him on tranquilizers. _Don’t remember._ Franke had never said a coherent sentence again, and Martin had found himself with the gruesome thought that he’d rather have Otto dead than get him back like that, maimed mentally.

Pushing the thought off, he put his suitcase under the bed in the storage room, the only space Otto’s stuff didn’t occupy currently. His room – for tonight, it would be _their_ room, if there was anything left of the evening at the end of his shift; Martin expected overtime.

He was right. It was almost midnight when he came back to the workshop.

As such, he was surprised to not only see light in the storage room but also hear music. Otto shouldn’t have been up at this time; he had to be off early the next day, but there he was rummaging through his things – no, _sorting_ , Martin corrected himself. The stack on his backpack consisted mostly of clothes, a set of cookware, a flask, washing and shaving things as well as paper, pencils and envelopes.

Otto just tossed his kit of sewing accessories on top of it, but he looked up when he heard Martin tapping near and smiled at him. “Lock the door, please?” he asked and gave him the key. It had an unpleasant weight now that it was Martin’s key instead of Otto’s, but the old ritual of locking up the door helped a bit to relieve the queasy feeling in his stomach.

When he came back, Otto handed him a bowl of soup and two slices of bread and turned off the petroleum cooker in the corner.

Martin’s gaze roamed the clutter nearby. A stack of books, several folders, a radio and a shabby old phonograph that he was sure Otto had gotten from Herrn Heim, a little basket with small stuff – Martin saw the paper medal Emil had made for Otto. Slung over the chair was Otto’s coat with brand-new insignia, and rolled up in the corner were a few additional blankets and a pillow, but they lacked a second mattress.

“Well, who’s sleeping on the floor?” Martin asked wryly.

Otto made a face. “Don’t be an ass.” He dropped on the bed and began to down his serving. Martin sat next to him. The situation was familiar in a bittersweet way – just sitting side by side, eating together. He’d miss it.

“You’re getting the diploma tomorrow?” he asked with a glance to Otto’s new uniform cap next to the bedside lamp.

“Yes,” Otto said. “They’re skipping the ceremony. The old man’s happy enough for every physician who’s fit to be conscripted.” He scraped a few leftovers from his plate, but the glum look at his possessions wasn’t lost on Martin. “Have to leave the most of it here, books and so on. A few phonograph records. Will you keep them?”

Martin paused. “Not Anni?”

“Would you prefer that?” Otto sounded insecure. “I mean, there’s not much space here…”

“ _No_ , I…” Of course Otto came up with practical considerations. How should Martin have explained to him how awful this whole thing was? As if they were discussing an inheritance regulation. But if it were – which other way would Otto have to leave him anything of his possessions? Martin sighed, put his dishes aside and his forehead on Otto’s shoulder. “I’d like to keep a few of your things.”

Otto sat his plate down, too, and hugged him. “Hey, don’t fret.”

“Can’t promise the discs will make it through the air raids,” Martin muttered without being able to look at him. At least he was offered a change of subject – the phonograph just started a rapid yet melancholy piano piece he recognized. “Beethoven?”

“Got it from a fellow student a couple years back.” Otto laughed, let go of him and went to tidy up the dishes. It felt like he tried to evade Martin’s gaze as well. “He kept the Jazz records for himself, though.” Turning off the phonograph, he looked a little bashful. Otto usually preferred more modern music; Martin wondered if he didn’t want to admit that he liked the more than one hundred years old piece. Or maybe he missed the friend he’d gotten the record from.

Martin had long mulled over what he could give Otto. Passing the worn-out set of playing cards to him now felt meager. “Here. Might find someone who’ll practice with you.”

Still, Otto smiled at that, as if he’d have much time to play Binokel in the military sickbay. But he put the cards on his take-along stack. “Can’t risk me getting bored.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Keep your hands off of Pervitin, please.”

“Oh, they’ve got something new,” Otto said when he sat back down next to Martin. “D-IX; that’s Pervitin spiked with cocaine and Eukodal. I suppose that abolishes sleep completely.”

“You keep your hands off of that, too,” Martin growled.

Otto smiled, meek as a lamb. “Yes, boss.” He’d come back with a small folder from which he took a few photographs. It weren’t many, a dozen at most. Two were copies of the pictures they’d gotten from the Westend hide-out, Hans with his wife and then with his kids on his arms.

The others showed Otto as a little boy with his class, Otto and Anni as children with their mother in a small, crammed kitchen, the siblings only a little younger than now and mirthfully smiling at the camera – Otto was wearing his uniform and his sister had a bouquet in her hands; Martin supposed that it had been made for Anni’s diploma. On the next photo, Otto looked more serious, only a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth, and he was surrounded by a squad of young soldiers and field paramedics.

The last picture was the one Martin liked best. There was Otto with a few friends, all about adolescent, outdoors. A lake and a few trees could be discerned in the background. Otto had his arms across the shoulders of a curly boy and a freckled girl, the latter of whom showed a long-suffering smile. Otto responded to her exasperated look with a proud, shit-eating grin; the other boy, Anni at the other side of the photograph and the boy she was leaning on all laughed their heads off, suggesting that Otto had made some stupid joke.

Martin looked at it a bit longer than at the rest, and Otto pushed it to him. “Want to have it?” he asked, and then: “Can I have one of you?”

Martin shook his head. “Don’t have any.” Best he could’ve offered was that of his class at his first day of school, and he could only be identified thanks to an awful pair of glasses. “Probably better that way.” A photo of him among Otto’s possessions would only raise questions; Otto could hardly claim towards his superiors that they were brothers or something.

Otto put the pictures down on the nightstand, took off Martin’s glasses and started kissing him. Martin had almost asked him not to, but later, when Otto straddled him, clutching him and stifling his moans on Martin’s shoulder, he was glad that the evening had gone like that. At least Otto whispered his name and had his arms around Martin’s neck; at least he let Martin hold him when he fell asleep. It was better, so much more natural than that weird distance they’d tried to enforce after Hans’ arrest and that just didn’t belong between them.

There weren’t more than a few hours of sleep for Martin; he woke up before Otto and got dressed quietly. Occasionally, he looked at Otto who was snoring softly into his pillow. At least he’d slept through the night for once.

Martin hated not getting this as his new normalcy after finding what it could be like – waking up next to him, setting a cup of barley coffee on the nightstand for him, kissing him on the forehead before he had to go to work. Otto stirred, opened his eyes and smiled at him. Martin smiled back as good as possible. “Have to go to the ward. Don’t sleep in; Heim’s shift starts in half an hour.”

Otto nodded and squeezed his hand for a second. “See you then at lunch break?”

* * *

Until lunch break, Martin had assisted with another amputation, had brought a soldier who’d returned from Belarus to psychiatry and another one to pathology – and the news had reached him.

The Allied forces had landed on the shores of Normandy, and there’d been a massacre. Enraged by the horrible shore battles by Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, the surviving American soldiers had begun to slaughter Germans who had already surrendered.

That was what the radio stations told, anyway. German stations weren’t fully reliable, but Martin was inclined to believe it – despair often unloaded in cruelty. It was not like he’d never felt the temptation to vent on some poor soul whose entire misdeed consisted of being Greek or a Yugoslav partisan fighter… _Don’t remember._

And no thinking about Otto being German, which would be reason enough to shoot him, whether he was a medic or not. He wished Otto would throttle the damn radio; he’d heard the reports too often by now.

Otto didn’t seem to be able to endure it anymore, either; he went to the radio and turned it off. When he looked at Martin, his eyes were full of dread, and he struggled to replace it with his brave, well-trained smile. “I won’t be in the front rows,” he said while folding his shirts. “A physician of a sanitary unit can’t be armed; that’s violating the Geneva Conventions.”

“And if they do it anyway? You’ll refuse orders and get hanged?” The higher-ups didn’t care about the Hippocratic Oath – why would they care about the Geneva Conventions? But even if they put a gun into the hands of everyone who could still stand, Martin doubted Otto would be able to shoot someone.

Otto came to him, that smile on his face that he wouldn’t be able to keep, a warm, loving gaze like he’d had at Christmas Eve half a year ago. “When I was seven, I fell off a cherry tree and had hardly a scratch. Mother said I’m like a cat, with seven lives. I guess I still have two or three left…”

He fumbled with the clasp of his necklace, the little cross he’d gotten for confirmation, and Martin realized, a bit belated, that Otto tried to give it to him. Quickly, he caught off Otto’s hands – no, _please don’t_ , no keepsake that would feel like a part of Otto. He never took that necklace off.

“You’ll still need your talisman,” Martin insisted and locked the clasp at Otto’s neck again. Otto blinked and lowered his gaze, blushing; perhaps he thought Martin found the gesture silly. Martin quickly cradled his face in his hands to make Otto look at him. “Hey, I’ll take it gladly,” he promised, “when you’re back in one piece.”

Otto’s eyes filled with tears. “When I write, _greetings to your wooden leg_ , what I mean is, _I love you_ ,” he managed to say. Martin kissed him and thought that it might be for the last time. He didn’t want to let go of Otto, didn’t want to let him go out _there_.

Of course, the door clicked. Of course, he and Otto retreated from each other before their visitor had crossed the workshop and entered the storage room.

It was Anni who came in and glimpsed at Martin in passing before she smiled at Otto. “Here; Mother sent it,” she said, giving him a jar of jam, probably to make the Kommiss bread a little less dry. “I’d like to say goodbye to my brother now.” It was a polite and entirely natural notion, but she didn’t look at Martin when she said it, and there was something testy about her tone. Because he had no right to be here – _she_ was Otto’s family; _she_ was allowed to say goodbye to him in private. Martin left.

The farewell on the ward was brief, wordless. Otto was hugged by a few fellow students on the stairs who insisted he had to send letters, but Martin kept it with a handshake, like the other nurses, like Dr. Hansen, Dr. Wagner and Dr. Sauerbruch. The latter gave Otto her husband’s and Dr. Jung’s warm regards.

And then, it was Nurse Christel’s turn. And she smiled wistfully and sighed: “Otto.” And then she kissed Otto. Martin clenched both hands to fists behind his back, thinking through a whole bunch of cusses. _How about you just take your damn hands off of him, you lousy, self-absorbed, pampered, fanatic…_

Luckily, Otto took it in stride, although his smile was a tad uncomfortable when he backed off. Christel didn’t seem to notice. “I want to belong with you, Otto,” she said and beamed at him, full of hope. “Shall we pledge to each other here and now, before witnesses?”

Martin began to feel nauseous. _Deceive and disguise, my dear. It’s the best that could happen to us._ And Christel asked him for an engagement – before witnesses, no less, so he couldn’t turn her down. Martin clenched his teeth and tried to swallow his wrath.

He would not be Otto’s mistress, no way. He would not share him with Christel, and if his cover was really that important to him… but he was immediately ashamed of the moment of unjustified distrust, because Otto’s insincere smile gave way to a cold, angry expression. He didn’t respond positively to emotional blackmail; Martin knew that much from the disputes with Anni.

Otto’s reply was very resolute. “Dear Nurse Christel, we certainly don’t know well enough for that. And you’re hopefully not out for a widow’s pension, because I’d have to disappoint you – I’m planning to stay alive. Farewell.”

With that, Otto was done and marched off. Dr. Sauerbruch and a few of the others looked a bit awkward, but they didn’t comment on the scene.

Christel however had turned pale. Her lip trembled, and she blinked hastily. Her obvious upset about the rejection could have made Martin feel a little sorry if it hadn’t been about Otto.

But now, all he could do was suppress his grin. Otto belonged with _him_ , and it was more important to him than the offered chance of deception. He’d only been teasing Martin after all; he didn’t plan to add a third component to their relationship. And soon, in a few months, when the war was over, he’d come back, and the two of them would be together. Martin dodged Christel’s look as she stood there covering her mouth with one hand, and made his way back to work in a bout of high spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! (Also desperate, so I'll just put my link here in the hopes that someone might just share it: https://www.betterplace.me/umzug-in-der-corona-krise ) Not fully warmed up yet, but I hope the chapter isn't too bumpy. 
> 
> Generaloberstabsarzt = highest-ranked medical officer 
> 
> The Beethoven bit Otto is listening to is the 3rd movement of Sonata No. 17. Give it a try; it's a really wonderful piece. 
> 
> D-IX is stuff the Nazis developed to drug their soldiers, and from what I read, they were nastily unscrupulous with dishing out anything that enhanced performance, no regard for long-term health ramifications. 
> 
> The battles at Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer I'm referring to were part of "Operation Neptune"; 6 June 1944 was kind of a big day for the Western Front, but... ugh, it was a dirty victory, paid dearly by just about everyone, for what I can tell. 
> 
> Otto's necklace being a confirmation gift is something I picked up here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256552  
> Because why make up something new when the ideally fitting idea already exists? Also, go read VampireSpider's stuff if you haven't yet. They're an awesome writer. 
> 
> The chapter title refers to a Jazz song by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal that gained popularity during WWII.


	14. Down in the Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for violation of personal space, verbal and physical abuse very specifically aimed at a disabled man, a (memory of a) rape threat, and brief suicidal thoughts. I don't think I was being too graphical, but writing this chapter was uncomfortable, so reading it might be uncomfortable, too.

Admittedly, Martin was a bit absent-minded, but collecting empty infusion bottles and cannulas wasn’t rocket science. So, only a small part of his attention was paid to the deed, while more of it revolved around speculations. Would Stauffenberg and his likeminded assert themselves in the Army Command and negotiate a truce at the Western front? Would the occupation of France come to an end? Would Otto write in a few weeks that he was out of danger…?

“Martin Schelling?” A voice ripped him from his thoughts. When Martin turned over to discern the source, he got frightened. A man in a dark suit stood before him, flanked by two police officers.

 _No. I haven’t done anything._ Except helping to hide Hans. Except destroying evidence for mass instigation. Except listening to enemy stations. “Yes?”

“You’re put under preventive detention,” the man said coolly and made a head movement to direct one of the officers to Martin. Next moment, the handcuffs were locked, cold iron around his wrists. The awful term _preventive detention_ that he hadn’t heard in five years stabbed like a blade into his head.

It wasn’t about his dissent. It was about Otto. _Someone told on us_ , was all he could think – a terribly familiar thought, like the fear for Theo – before he denied it: “That has to be a mistake.”

The investigator smiled. “No,” he said simply.

Martin felt the nurses and patients around staring. Before the police officers grabbed his arms and flipped him over to the door, he caught a glimpse of Christel, attentively watching everything. She didn’t smile, but there was a strange, hard glow in her eyes that didn’t bode well. Martin didn’t even manage to get angry – the camp was waiting for him, and Christel was quite happy about it.

* * *

It couldn’t lead anywhere. Martin told himself that over and over again while waiting for Leibfried. Even if Christel had denounced him – what was there to tell? She’d never seen them do anything. They’d only ever done anything behind locked doors…

 _How often could she have seen us? When we went out to Westend? When I hugged Otto after Hans was arrested? The evening I found him half-drunk on the hospital area? Down in the shelter?_ Martin felt ill. How could they have been so stupid, so careless?

Leibfried slammed the door when he came in, making Martin flinch. The inspector didn’t appear displeased, on the contrary; the crashing had only been for intimidating purposes. But Martin couldn’t have said that it didn’t work. Leibfried sat down opposite to him. He didn’t have a file like he did for the Friday interrogations.

“Any idea why you’re here, Herr Schelling?” he asked in a casual tone. It was almost verbatim the same question that had started his interrogation about Theo back then. When Martin kept silent, the inspector smiled wryly. “You’re accused of indecent behavior towards your colleague Otto Marquardt. What’s your statement regarding that?”

Martin took a deep breath. Had Otto already been arrested? Or was he on his way to the front? Would Christel even risk getting Otto sent to the camp as well…? But of course she would, after the declined proposal. “It’s not true,” he replied and hoped he sounded convincingly furious.

Leibfried kept a straight face. “It’s not the first time you fall foul of Paragraph 175,” he said, sounding almost bored. “You should have stayed on your own.”

“I did,” Martin insisted. “The charge’s unfounded.”

“Our witness disagrees,” Leibfried noted. He reminded Martin a lot of the inspector from five years ago, the same patient gaze.  
_“Our witness says the two of you are inappropriately close.”_

“She’s lying,” he blurted out.

Another smile. “She?”

Martin clenched his teeth. _So what._ “Christel Böhnisch. Don’t tell me it wasn’t her who accused me. Fräulein Böhnisch and I do have a long history of mutual dislike.”

“She’s understandably sickened with your… deviation,” Leibfried drawled and, on the last word, made a face like he’d tasted something disgusting.

 _More like sick with jealousy._ “I didn’t commit any offenses towards Otto Marquardt or anyone else.”

“Then why are you keeping Herrn Marquardt’s things in your room?” Leibfried wanted to know, again an old echo.  
_“Can you tell me, then, what you were doing in his apartment?”_

For the first time, Martin felt rage flickering up beneath his fear. Had they searched their room? “It was _his_ room until recently,” he said. “I’m not keeping his things; he left them there when he was conscripted.”

“Confidential talks, you were walking Charité’s area together,” Leibfried listed as if he hadn’t heard him at all. “He’s said to have been at your place several times. And he’s apparently easily influenced by you.”

That wasn’t even true – when had Otto ever listened to him? “I doubt it. Why should he?” Martin snapped. “And of course I talk to my colleagues on the ward sometimes. That’s difficult to avoid.”

“And the meetings? You’re seen together all the time.”  
_“You and Herr Berner are practically inseparable, I hear.”_

There was still this indulging tone as if he was just waiting out Martin’s excuses. “That’s an invention of Fräulein Böhnisch’s fantasy,” Martin murmured, but it hardly sounded believable.

“So, you’re denying it.” Leibfried wrinkled his nose. “After all that time, I hoped you’d learned your lesson in self-restraint, seeing as you’re not capable of giving up your perversion. Have you never considered what you’re doing to Otto Marquardt by making him the object of your unnatural proclivities?”  
_“It’s regrettable you gave in to him when he targeted you for his abnormal tendencies.”_

Martin didn’t answer. Each word was one too much – he shouldn’t even have started discussing.

Leibfried waited for another moment, but then seemed to accept that there’d be no reply. “Well. I think when the lawsuit is done, Sachsenhausen will be awaiting you.”

 _Sachsenhausen._ Martin winced. Theo was there – or had died there. Back then, he’d been the seducer and Martin the seduced who’d gotten a chance of parole. Now it was his turn.

The inspector seemed to think something similar. Finally, the neutral mask broke. Pure scorn was beneath it. “I should warn you: It won’t be fun. As I’ve heard, your sort is not very popular with the inmates.”

Yes, Martin had heard that, too. _His sort_ were beaten up everywhere they couldn’t hide.

* * *

Two hours later, Martin was back at Charité. Leibfried had referred him to de Crinis for a psychiatric assessment. Could have been reassuring since it meant that he lacked the evidence to support the accusation, but it also meant Martin wouldn’t talk to a lawyer anytime soon. And de Crinis would happily send him to his doom. Not just him. Martin’s innards clenched on themselves when he remembered Otto saying that de Crinis kept an eye on him because of Lohmann.

“Take off everything,” the psychiatric orderly who’d received him barked. Martin stared at him – he already was stark naked.

The nurse made a jerky gesture to his leg.

Martin blinked. He couldn’t be serious. “I–” he began and was interrupted.

“Everything is to be searched. Get on with it!” The man shoved Martin and sent him stumbling into the edge of the table behind him.

Martin swallowed hard, propped himself up on the table and loosened the straps. Until now, he’d at least been able to cover himself provisionally, but when the nurse took his prosthesis away, he needed both hands to keep himself from falling. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, trying to ignore the pounding behind his temples. It wasn’t the first time, he reminded himself through a surge of nauseating humiliation; back then in prison, he’d been searched, too. It was nothing, just a check-up.

Still, he flinched when the man grabbed his shoulders, turned him over and quickly patted down his sides. Martin wanted to sock him so badly – _get your hands off me, don’t touch me!_

At least, that particular inspection went over swiftly; then the guy retreated as if Martin had a contagious disease. It could have been funny, but the lump in his throat smothered every hint of gallows humor.

The orderly ripped the glasses from his nose, threw a bundle of clothes on the table next to him and left the room with Martin’s stuff.

When the door was locked up, Martin gasped for breath. He felt cold, despite the summer outside. Panic told him to flee, but there was no running with one and a half leg. He grabbed the clothes and dropped to the floor to eye them. Trousers and a shirt of a coarse, grey fabric – at least they weren’t striped like those of the death camp inmates, but the similarity was just enough to remind Martin that there wasn’t much of a difference between a prison and a psychiatric ward.

He felt a bit better when he was dressed, but then the waiting began anew, and with it the _brooding_. What was he to do? Back then, he’d been given a public defender, an incompetent, uninterested man who’d barely listened to Martin and hardly ever opened his mouth during the summary trial. Would Otto get an attorney? Would he get put on front parole? He needed to stop thinking about Otto – there was nothing he could have done to help him now.

The door was opened again. Martin straightened up, tensely awaiting the man from earlier, but another nurse entered the room, a little older and bald, carrying the wooden leg and saying: “Herr Schelling, isn’t it? I’m Jakob Reichelt.” He handed Martin the prosthesis and his glasses. “Do you need help with that?”

Martin hastily shook his head. “No – I’ll do that myself, thanks.” The politeness was unexpected after the unkind greeting. With shaky hands, he fastened the straps. Reichelt looked at the wall instead of staring impatiently until he was done. Then he made a move to help him up, but he retreated when Martin pulled himself to his feet gripping for the table. Following a handwave, he walked down the hallway after Reichelt.

“Supper is at half past six, breakfast at eight, lunch at one o’clock,” the nurse explained. “Since you’re a forensic patient, you’ll have to stay in solitary confinement, so food will be brought to your cell. The professor hasn’t set up an appointment for your assessment yet, but you’ll be informed when he wants to talk to you.”

Martin nodded weakly. Looks of the other prisoners – _patients_ – followed him, blank stares, sometimes a semblance of disdain when they noticed where he was brought.

He was glad to get away from the looks, but it still took some effort to step into the cell to which Reichelt opened the door. It was a depressingly bleak room – a bed, a nightstand, a table, a chair, and a toilet, all in a dingy white, the window small and behind massive steel bars.

Martin couldn’t help missing the crammed little storage room where coffee stains and scattered books, worn-out cookware and the half-full ashtray bore the memory of Otto’s presence. Even the dusty attic with its discarded clutter was more welcoming than this. Martin sat down on the bed.

Reichelt gave a short nod, apparently relieved that Martin didn’t make a fuss. “A young lady signed up for a visit, by the way, a Fräulein Hertzold,” he noted. “Visiting hour is at four in the afternoon.”

“Oh, good,” Martin replied, although he wasn’t sure he could handle a visit from Laura at the moment. On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t be allowed to talk to anyone later.

Reichelt locked him in, and Martin lay down, looked at the ceiling and began to wait.

* * *

He was busy with his gloomy contemplations when the door clicked, informing him that it was about four in the afternoon, because the unfriendly orderly from earlier led an intimidated-looking Nurse Laura in. “No more than ten minutes,” he snapped at her and left.

Laura frowned after him before she turned to Martin, nodding. “Martin.”

Martin gave a nod in return. “Nice to see you.” It sounded a bit stilted, but he wasn’t sure what Laura thought of him currently.

She tried a smile and began digging in her purse when she came closer. “I brought you a few things.” His toothbrush and toothpaste emerged, followed by a few shirts, shorts, and socks.

“Thanks.” Martin forced a smile on his face, too, and Laura eased up a little.

“I wanted to bring you writing things, too,” she said, “but that orderly, Teubner, said you aren’t allow to have pens or pencils; they’re apparently suicide weapons.” She was silent for a second before she added: “What an ass.”

Martin grinned. Laura wasn’t usually one to use that kind of words. “True.”

He scooted a bit, and she sat down next to him on the bed’s edge. “Sorry, Martin, but they rummaged through your stuff.” Martin nodded again; he knew that much. “But I brought you these,” Laura unpacked three of his books, Carossa, Fallada, and Bergengruen.

He probably wouldn’t have the mind to read, but it was still kind of her. And she’d brought the more readable ones, from the authors who could still be published without constantly spitting propaganda against Jews or for the war. “No Kästner and Mann? Disappointing,” he wisecracked.

Laura raised an eyebrow. “Thomas or Heinrich Mann? Because I think Thomas might not help your case.”

That actually made Martin laugh.

Laura sighed and scrubbed a hand across her forehead. “Everyone’s asking how you are. The boss is hopping mad, and so is Angelika. She says you should keep your chin up.”

“I’m trying,” Martin assured, even though he wasn’t sure to which end – he didn’t have any way to defend himself.

Restlessly, Laura tapped her fingers on her purse. “They questioned us about you and Otto,” she said without looking at him. Her cheeks had blushed in a light pink.

Well, she hadn’t distanced herself from him. Martin appreciated that highly about her. About Sauerbruch and Angelika, too. “What did you say?”

Laura gave a helpless shrug. “What should I have said? The two of you are friends.” Her tone didn’t tell whether or not she believed the accusations.

But Martin had to take that risk. “Has Otto been arrested?”

After a moment, she nodded. “I think so.”

 _Goddammit._ Martin propped his forehead up on his clenched fists, suppressing the wish to scream at something.

Laura made a move like she wanted to pat his shoulder, but decided against it. Instead, she fumbled with something in her pocket. The gesture made him think of Otto and his cross pendant, and he remembered that Laura was a Catholic. She probably had her rosary with her. “Martin…”

“Please don’t say you’re going to pray for my soul,” Martin interrupted her. Laura hadn’t earned this; she’d been so nice, but he couldn’t endure a well-meaning phrase like that right now.

Laura smiled, a bit lopsided. “For your release?” she offered instead.

Otto had been right – she really was a sweet girl. “Better,” he admitted just when Teubner opened the door and glared at Laura.

She stood up and made a step toward the door. Then she turned on her heel, pulled Martin into a brief hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Martin was more than a little perplexed – they were on friendly terms, but they’d never exchanged more than a handshake. Teubner looked even more bewildered as Laura strutted past him with her head held high. If he survived this, Martin thought, he’d had to find some treat for Laura.

* * *

Otto wouldn’t betray him; he knew that much. Martin had thought about it three nights in succession, but Otto would rather go to the camp than say that Martin had seduced him.

“You never would have talked, either,” Theo said.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut. He supposed it was just the loneliness, the permanent quiet that manifested itself in him making up someone he could talk to.

“Or it’s guilt,” Theo commented. “You blame yourself for what happened to me, and you’re afraid that they’ll get Otto, too. And he’s so damn noble. He’ll choose Sachsenhausen over buying his probation with your life.”

Martin clawed at his pillow. _He’s a first offender. He’ll get probation._

“And then? He’ll be under surveillance for all his life and hate himself because he couldn’t save you. You never stopped hating yourself for it.”

 _Go away._ Martin didn’t feel like talking to his subconscious. _Just leave me alone._

“Who’s going to talk to you, then?” Theo asked. “The nurses?”

Martin was already growing sick of them. Save Reichelt, there were loathing glances whenever someone brought his food, muttered comments. _Pervert, abomination. You should be ashamed of yourself._ He ground his teeth. Especially the female nurses recoiled from him as if he were leprous.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Theo said in grim humor. “Why should a _woman_ be afraid of you?”

He laughed, and Martin laughed, too, and abruptly tilted into sobs. Three days, and he was beginning to lose his mind.

* * *

“Washing day,” Reichelt said unconcernedly the next afternoon and tossed him two towels and a washcloth. “Come along, please.”

The announcement startled him. He’d been in prison for only about a week five years ago, but it had been long enough for a washing day. And the psychiatric clinic had, like the prison, communal showers. Martin began to feel sick.

“Herr Schelling?” Reichelt passed him a questioning look.

Martin opened his mouth, wanted to ask, beg, whatever. _Please leave me be._ But Reichelt walked out, and Martin had no choice but to follow him. He lined up behind the other men on their way to the washroom, about a dozen who were decidedly not looking into his direction.

Idly, Martin wondered what had put them in. Conscientious objectors, probably, or behavioral disorders. One of them was trembling uncontrollably. Everywhere else in Charité, Martin would have been a nurse responsible for their wellbeing, but here, he was dirt they could trample on. Someone pushed him before the door to the washroom. Martin tripped, caught himself on the wall and waited for the flock to pass.

“Need a written invitation?” one of the orderlies in charge barked at him, but that was when Reichelt caught up with a stool and beckoned Martin to follow him.

In the anteroom to the showers, he put the stool down near the door and left the seat to Martin so he could take off his clothes and prosthesis. He wasn’t in a hurry with either, the dread almost paralyzing him.

 _Just go about it quickly. Won’t be long – and they’ll stay away from you. They’re patients, not criminals._ His stomach still churned when Reichelt brought him to the shower and left him alone. He could practically hear it, the same hostile muttering as five years ago.

_“Lousy little piece of shit.”_

_“Why’s this perverted rat here with us?”_

_“He better keep away, or I’ll show him the difference between him and a real man.”_

Martin turned on the shower, letting the noise drown out his thoughts. The water was lukewarm at best, but he preferred it that way – it would keep him alert. Although warm water might have helped his left leg; he wasn’t used to the extended balance-keeping.

He kept his head down, washed himself quickly, didn’t turn to face the others. Occasionally, someone hissed a word his way, but never loudly enough to be understood. Just as he hoped to get out unscathed, something hard hit his temple.

The sharp, sudden pain made his eyes fill with tears, but the fear was worse. Martin had almost dropped to the floor immediately and crossed his arms above his head to shield himself.

_“What’s your deal, faggot?” A cold snarl into his ear while two men grabbed his arms and a third wrenched his head by the hair. “Don’t like it that way?”_

_An attempt to scream, stifled with a rough hand. An attempt to run, paid back with kicks against his kneecaps that were almost enough to send him to the ground. Somewhere beneath the fear a sense of the situation’s sheer grotesqueness – men who were after him for being a homosexual and pushed him up naked against a wall._

_Then a guard’s voice, brusque, but not alarmed. “Let go of the boy. Or do you want to be charged as 175s, too?”_

_The men had let go of Martin, laughing – and why shouldn’t they as he was a trembling wreck, which was all they’d wanted. They’d never wanted_ that _– they’d only ever wanted to see him writhe in terror._

Martin wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there motionlessly before his brain made sense of the noise that had followed the pain. Something had clattered on the tiles. Not a punch, then. He checked – someone had chucked a bar of soap at his head. A cautious glance over his shoulder. No one stood behind him, but one of the other men looked to him with an ugly expression, and Martin heard him murmur: “Dirty pervert.”

Martin looked at the wall before him, trying to take a deep breath. It didn’t work.

“Krentzsch!” Reichelt’s sharp voice reached them from the door. “Soap is expensive. I see you do that again, you’re not getting any the next time.”

The addressee only shrugged on that.

Martin shut off the shower and turned to the door. Reichelt helped him on his way out, brought him back to his seat, and Martin dried himself as quickly as possible. Getting dressed was again followed up by a small amount of relief, but he was still shivering. The panic when he’d thought someone behind himself, knowing that he couldn’t _run_ …

Krentzsch was the first to leave the washroom. He wrapped his towel around himself, glanced at Martin buttoning up his shirt and at the wooden leg lying next to him. Martin didn’t dare to look directly at him, but he watched him warily from the corner of his eye. A nasty grin spread across Krentzsch’s face.

Then he came over and reached for the prosthesis. Martin hastily snatched it away, although this time he glared at Krentzsch.

The man passed him a contemptuous look. He seemed to consider beating him, and Martin braced himself for a fight.

Krentzsch looked to the nurses who were talking nearby, and then turned away. Martin closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he’d be able to sleep.

He was brought back by Reichelt, which gave him the bit of courage he needed to ask. “Is it… might it be possible that– that I wash in my cell from now on, please?” he wrang from himself, his voice almost breaking halfway through the sentence.

Reichelt frowned. “That’s not according to…” Something about Martin’s expression made him pause. Eventually, he nodded. “I’ll make a note in the file that showering won’t do with the prosthesis. It’ll take too long if we all but have to carry you every time.”

Martin had almost hugged the man. “Thank you.”

Reichelt left him to his lonesomeness again, and Martin recalled that, after the last time, he’d begun to appreciate the solitary confinement as well.

However, it was the first time that he contemplated if the bars on the window would hold his weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpleasant flashback-y chapter is unpleasant and flashback-y.
> 
> The authors I mentioned, Hans Carossa, Hans Fallada and Werner Bergengruen, were writers of the "inner emigration" movement - meaning, they didn't agree with the Nazi regime but didn't oppose it openly, writing in a style as neutral as possible to avoid getting pursued and to still be allowed to publish. A few gems among them managed to use their writing for covert critique. 
> 
> Thomas and Heinrich Mann were criticizing openly, censored all the way through, and they'd long emigrated in 1944. What Laura means is that Thomas Mann had a tendency to start gushing about pretty young men in some of his works, so owning any of those writings... really wouldn't help Martin's case.


	15. I'm still standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eurgh, this should have been up, like, four days ago. But then life happened and I didn't get around to translating... anyway. This chapter is not as viscerally disgusting as the last, but it still goes with a major warning for suicidal thoughts and a suicide attempt.

Once again, the door was slammed shut. Once again, Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the nurse left him alone.

She had snapped at him for barely eating. “What, are you trying to starve yourself now?”

No, of course not; as if he’d go with such a slow method. But it became difficult to feel hungry when the nausea was so much stronger each time his door was opened. The fear that cut off his breath.

In here, he was safe – it was an insecure state between acquittal and conviction, but at least he didn’t have to face the other inmates. The nurses were bad enough. He was allowed to shave, but only under supervision; he wasn’t left by himself with a blade. Washing water was brought to his cell, and on a more regular basis food. On tinware that wouldn’t give splinters.

“If you refuse to eat, they might force-feed you,” Theo pointed out.

The thought was enough to twist Martin’s guts again. His Balkans unit had force-fed a Greek prisoner, a Leutnant who’d withdrawn into persistent silence and then into hunger strike.

He hadn’t looked quite so stoic when four men had held him down while a fifth dumped a load of the watery grey porridge down his throat that had made their daily meals then. Martin closed his eyes, but that didn’t stop the memory. How the man had writhed, how he’d retched and coughed, had tried to scream.

“Shouldn’t you better make yourself eat before they make you?” Theo asked.

Martin grinned bitterly. _Shouldn’t I better kill myself before they do?_ Was that worth it, to die like that? In an ultimate fit of contrariness?

When he opened his eyes again, Theo glared at him blackly. “Do you want to make it look like a damn guilty plea?” Theo had always wanted to live. He’d been deported because a suicide had been out of the question for him. “We don’t kill ourselves for that, Martin,” he hissed. “Not for the way we are.”

 _The way we are_. Martin thought of the first time Theo had kissed him. Immediately after, Martin had kissed him, and then he’d recoiled, aghast and confused. “That shouldn’t be right,” he’d muttered.

Theo had shrugged, although he’d made a step back as well, a trace of dread on his face. “Is it wrong?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? It had never been wrong enough to deter them. Otto had handled it like the most natural thing in the world… Martin pinched his own arm. _Don’t think of Otto_.

Theo gave him a sour glance on that. “You know, he doesn’t stop existing just because you won’t ever see him again. Sometime, you’ll have to consider the consequences that’ll be there for _him_.”

Steps outside made Theo shut up and Martin prick up his ears. When the door was opened, he sat up hastily and grabbed his glasses, a bit alarmed. It usually took longer before someone came to him again… but then, his sense of time was somewhat skewed these days.

When de Crinis came in, Martin felt overcome by cold disgust. He hadn’t been prepared for this – nobody had informed him that he’d be interrogated today.

Reichelt stood at the door, hesitating, slightly frowning. He didn’t seem sure if he should leave. “I’ll manage by myself,” de Crinis told him. “Our patient will surely behave. I’ll knock when I’m done.” With that, he turned his back to him, and Reichelt locked the door from the outside.

Since Martin was sitting on his bed, de Crinis drew the chair from the table over and sat down, noting briskly: “So, Sauerbruch’s show horse with the rotationplasty.” He dug a cigarette case from his pocket. “Your boss was here already, very eagerly advocating for you.”

That hadn’t been lost on Martin. Two days ago, the Sauerbruchs had been standing at the psychiatry building, discussing with de Crinis loudly enough for Martin to hear them. He’d climbed on his chair to look out of the window and seen them just at the corner of the house. Dr. Sauerbruch had towered up before de Crinis, giving him a withering stare. The professor had been gesturing vehemently, yelling more with every moment.

De Crinis hadn’t been bothered by it, and he appeared quite placid now, too, when he offered Martin a cigarette. Martin made no move to take it. It was quiet for a while, only Teubner’s voice echoing from the hallway as he shouted at some patient.

De Crinis eyed Martin attentively and then picked out his lighter. “You’re certainly not keen on extending your stay here,” he said in a conversational tone. “Forensic patients aren’t evacuated during the air raids, you see. So, this cell here,” he grinned, “isn’t much of a cozy place.”

Martin didn’t reply. He hadn’t been asked anything, really.

Calmly, de Crinis lit his cigarette, took a drag and sat back. “We can cut this short. I will write my assessment just as well without your statement. To me, the testimony of our NS functionary nurse is enough evidence of your crime.”

Martin felt something like ice water trickling down his spine. The decision had been made, then. _Leibfried should be glad._ They’d even skipped the farce with the attorney this time.

“That leaves only the question if you have enough decency to confess having seduced Otto Marquardt. Then at least your little catamite would get away with front probation. You’ll go to the concentration camp either way.”

Briefly, Martin felt a flicker of the wish to charge de Crinis and slam his head against the wall. _Catamite?_ Would it have made a difference? His name was already on a deportation list to Sachsenhausen; beating up the head of the psychiatric clinic could only improve his leftover life quality. If he didn’t have to care since he’d die anyway, he didn’t have to listen to this piece of shit talking about Otto like that…

“Unless,” de Crinis continued, “you take medical treatment for your abnormal urges. If you agree with your castration, I can keep you here at the hospital. And it has helped quite a few people to get over their unsavory disposition.”

And with that, the bright, glowing moment of indifference and defiance was gone. The hatred that had strengthened him for a second gave way to icy panic. _Can they– are they permitted–? Has– Theo–? Have they offered_ that _to him? Would he have– no– God, no!_

De Crinis’ voice reached him, sounding dull. Martin had no idea what he said. Only the knocking startled him. De Crinis stood at the door, his cigarette crunched on the floor, and he passed Martin a pointed look. Then Reichelt opened. De Crinis left.

And Martin was alone with his alternative.

It was that or the camp. He looked down at his stump. He already lacked a leg. Nobody would mind maiming him further.

He wanted to breathe calmly, but his lungs just wouldn’t take the air in. He wanted to curl up on the bed, but his muscles wouldn’t play along. Martin sat there like frozen. Most of all, he wanted to _scream_. Franke had never stopped screaming after his last skirmish, and now Martin knew why.

_No way out. No escape. No fight. It’s all been decided._

* * *

The worst – well, perhaps not _the_ worst, but still bad enough – was that he did consider it. When he woke up for the fourth time that night, drenched in his sweat, his head full of images of uniformed men who beat him and dragged him to a barbed wire fence beyond which he’d disappear – _who held him down, four of them, while a fifth came up with a knife_ – he thought about it. Wondered if it would be so bad.

People _could_ live like that. He lived with a leg missing. Was there that much of a difference? He could take it, let the war pass and get over it…

But he wouldn’t get over that. He’d be broken beyond repair; he wouldn’t be able to ever let Otto or anyone else near himself. What would be left of him would be a trembling, whimpering wreck, scared of everything and everyone.

Martin stared into the darkness and tried to see something else than Theo full of blood. Tried to push away the terror, to think clearly.

Realistically, the alternative wasn’t one. He wouldn’t live with it. He wouldn’t be able to willingly give himself to be maimed – and with the experimental methods that were tested on prisoners, there was no telling if he could survive _that_.

Realistically, he wouldn’t live long in the camp. Someone would beat him to death or shoot him before he could starve, but that was all the comfort he found in it. If he’d been healthy, he’d be made to work himself to death, but a cripple was easy prey.

Realistically, no one could help him. Sauerbruch’s advocacy hadn’t achieved anything with de Crinis, and Martin didn’t expect justice from the government.

 _Otto hasn’t betrayed me_. The thought was random, didn’t fit the rest because it was shaped like a hope he could cling to, even though it wasn’t. De Crinis had said his confession would mean probation for Otto – which meant, Otto had kept silent.

He hadn’t wanted to think of Otto, but now that he did, all the possibilities pelted down on him at once.

The law would treat all 175s the same, and Otto would go to the camp, too. He’d be cannon fodder at the front, and dead within the week. He’d be slain by hateful prison inmates. He’d get castrated. He’d get, in some remote hospital, surreptitiously and slowly poisoned with Luminal. A comrade in the army would stab him, enraged to service side by side with a homosexual.

But… there really _was_ still another option for Otto. He could survive the war, the probation – physicians were so desperately needed; he was still valuable. And it wouldn’t last much longer. A few months, perhaps. Otto could come back and live. He would mourn, yes, but he could heal. Find someone else who’d love him – and someone _would_ ; Martin didn’t doubt that. If not another man, perhaps he’d find a woman he liked enough stay with and start a family with her.

Otto still had a life before him – a life without Martin.

_Provided I die without a confession and without a sentence._

Martin closed his eyes and rolled over. For the first time since he’d been arrested, he felt something like calm.

* * *

When Reichelt brought him washing water and shaving things the other afternoon, Martin caught himself contemplating the razor with an odd tranquility. It would hurt, sure, but it would be quick…

Not quick enough. His warden stood right next to him and would react immediately. And Martin didn’t really have to get Reichelt into trouble, the only one around who treated him like a person.

No, better do it at night, when he was alone.

Still, setting the blade on skin felt strange now. An efficient tool, after all – what else would he have? He didn’t have a Frau von Dohnanyi who’d deliver bacilli or poison to his cell. The pillowcase wasn’t long enough to strangle himself, and the blanket was useless for the task.

“Anything from the front?” he asked Reichelt. At times, that question would get him news that subtly hinted at Reichelt listening to enemy stations. Perhaps he felt somewhat at ease talking to an inmate known for being taciturn about his doubts regarding Ultimate Victory.

Now however, he looked nervous. He blinked, set up to speak several times before the words came. “Well, there’s not much left in Belarus, but…” He glimpsed to the door. Looked back to Martin. Suddenly, he blurted out: “There’s a rumor that Hitler’s been assassinated.”

“Ah.” Martin wiped the shaving cream off his face. The towel _had_ the right length.

Then he realized what Reichelt had just said. “What?”

The orderly shrugged, bobbing uneasily on his feet. “That’s what a few people _said_. Nobody seems to get a clear connection to Görlitz, and all hell’s broken loose in the government quarter; they’re fighting there…”

Martin stared at him. _That would put everything within reach – the armistice in France, the government’s breakdown. Everything Hans gave his life for – suddenly possible._ The entire system succeeded or failed with Hitler. If he was dead – _if_ – it would be the end for Germany, the end of the terror. A chance for a coup.

Reichelt glanced at the door again. “It’s probably just a dumb rumor,” he said a bit more loudly, and Martin didn’t know if it was to convince a hidden listener or himself. The nurse hastily grabbed his washing bowl and shaving things and left the room.

He hadn’t asked for the towel that Martin had put down on the chair and tucked away beneath his healthy leg. When the door was locked, Martin hid it in the pillowcase.

* * *

Another sleepless night followed. For a while, doubts gnawed at his determination – should he take his own life when the state was about to collapse? And if it wasn’t? How long could he wait?

Martin looked out into the night, thinking of Theo. Thinking of Otto. So far, he’d only ever considered what Theo would expect of him – to live, at any cost, if there was the slightest chance of a future…

What would _Otto_ expect of him? _“Suicide is still better,”_ Martin had once said to him, and Otto had given Hans what he’d needed to try and kill himself. But it was nothing he’d do himself, was it? Otto wasn’t one to easily give up.

There was a static hiss in the hallway. Martin slinked to the door, insofar there was any slinking with the tapping of his leg on the floor. The night guard sitting outside was twisting the volume control on his radio. And a familiar voice spoke.

Martin felt like his stomach got filled with lead.

Hoped in vain, revolted in vain. Hans had still died for nothing.

For the first time, Martin noticed how tired he was. He hardly slept since he was here, but now he wanted to. The routine of taking off his prosthesis was familiar in an almost comforting way, and then he curled up beneath the blanket. His subconscious in the form of Theo was silent – perhaps because Martin had been hoping for a few hours, and hope meant Otto to him.

He burrowed one hand inside the pillowcase, feeling the scratchy surface of the towel. Closed his eyes and imagined sitting in the attic with Otto leaning to his side.

* * *

He waited until the awful nurse had picked up the rest of his lunch. No washing day today, so he’d be left on his own until supper. Quietly, cautiously, Martin got out the towel and spread it out on the tabletop before him.

His hands didn’t shake when he rolled it up to a cord, although a part of him screamed and cried in protest. It would be the bedpost, he’d decided. The window was too conspicuous – he’d have to drag the chair over and climb on it, which was too noisy.

Martin looked up to the window. It had been raining, but now, sunbeams fell through the steel bars and made the drops on the glass twinkle. The sight touched a memory of his that was strangely old. He usually refused to remember things that were so far back.

He’d been only seven or eight years old and his parents had taken him along to the city – for groceries, to the library; they’d been out and about all afternoon. It had been later in the year than it was now, October already, and when it had begun to rain, it had been a cold, thorough downpour worthy of autumn.

His mother had cursed like a sailor because the wind had all but torn the umbrella from her, and finally, she’d given up on it and just drawn the hat down her forehead, disgruntled. His father had only laughed and bought them a round of sausages from the next street vendor.

And then all three of them had sat on some wet bench, Martin between his parents and thus shielded from the weather as good as possible, and they’d eaten their sausages. The mustard had gone watery, but he hadn’t minded; he’d enjoyed the smell of the city in the rain.

Father had tousled his dripping hair with his hand, and eventually, the sun had come out, shedding beams of light through the grey clouds, similar to those brightening up Martin’s cell now.

He turned his attention back to the towel, his harmless little murder weapon. Next, he’d almost began to scream in frustration because _there was someone at the door. Now_. At the worst possible moment.

Of course, Reichelt didn’t say a word on this as he came in. “Herr Schelling?”

Quickly, Martin got to his feet and shifted before the table to cover the view on the towel – but he lost the thought when Reichelt handed him a stack of clothes including a pair of shoes. _Martin’s_ clothes. “Professor de Crinis just got the okay from the police inspector; your discharge papers have been validated.”

Martin stared at him, completely thunderstruck. “Discharge papers?” he repeated quietly. That couldn’t be right. De Crinis had promised him the camp.

There was a kind of awkward smile in response. “Well, he filed his assessment yesterday. There must have been an error somewhere…”

An _error_? Martin had almost laughed incredulously. Christel had ratted on him – and de Crinis had been all too happy to believe her. “I’ve been told– for weeks, I was– _why_ did he acquit me all of a sudden?”

Reichelt shrugged. “No idea. Perhaps you can ask the young lady for details; the professor was processing the case with one of his students. Pretty one. Frau Waldhausen, I think.”

Anni. But why should _she_ … He remembered her occasional looks, the frowns when she’d seen him with Otto. Had _she_ changed de Crinis’ opinion of him? … _has Otto asked her to?_

He must have stared into the void rather stupidly because Reichelt made a handwave to the stack of clothes to get him to move. “Get dressed and come to the reception desk.” With that, he left him alone, but he didn’t lock the door this time.

Stunned, Martin looked at the towel on the table, then at the clothes in his hands. He did as he’d been told, and when he stepped out of the cell, he expected Teubner or anyone else to charge him and drag him back inside with punches and yelling. But nothing of the sort happened. Martin felt numb as he made his way up to the administration.

Reichelt had him sign a few papers regarding his stay and then accompanied him to the door where he said his goodbye with a smile and a handshake. “Best wishes, Herr Schelling.”

Then he stood before the building, alone, unwatched, blinking into the sunlight that was strange and too bright after weeks in the cell. A few nurses and students were around, but they paid him no attention now that he wasn’t a prisoner; he was just some civilian, just some nurse.

Martin took a deep breath and another one, amazed by how easy breathing was. How peaceful and pleasant Charité looked around him. How good it felt not to be surrounded by four bland, white walls.

And then he went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luminal was the brand name for Phenobarbital back in the day. It was a rather common tranquilizer and is still in use today to treat epilepsy in children; it's not dangerous if used correctly, but overdosing it slightly over several days was a popular method of Nazi Euthanasia. 
> 
> Görlitz doesn't mean the Saxonian town here; it was one of the names in use for then-Eastern Prussian, today-Polish Gierłoż, location of Hitler's military headquarters.


	16. Something to hold onto

When he opened the door of the auditorium, Martin hadn’t quite recovered from this surreal feeling and thus didn’t hear what the old man, Professor Max Planck, said, because his gaze was already searching the audience.

There was Professor Sauerbruch who opened his mouth when he saw Martin as if he wanted to say something, and then just smiled.

There was de Crinis in the backrow, looking uncharacteristically pale and low-spirited and actually _avoiding_ Martin’s glance.

And there was Anni Waldhausen, Otto’s sister, dressed neatly, hair done flawlessly, her face a motionless mask until she saw him. There was something of a spark in her eyes, and she nodded to him minutely before returning her attention to Professor Planck. _Later_.

Martin glimpsed at the lectern and lowered his head, belatedly embarrassed – he’d just barged into a speech of Max Planck himself… A few weeks of arrest, and there went his manners.

He sheepishly tiptoed past him, sitting down in the front row near his boss, who promptly gave him an emphatic smack to the shoulder and whispered: “Damn good to see you!”

For the first time in a long while, Martin managed an honest, spontaneous, bright smile.

* * *

“ _Martin_!”

Sauerbruch muttered: “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” but it didn’t stop the flock that scurried to them. Martin found himself hugged by three women at once – Anna, Angelika, and Laura. The latter kissed his cheek again and grinned merrily before retreating to make way for Dr. Sauerbruch and Fräulein Fritsch.

“Goodness, but we are happy to get you back!” Dr. Sauerbruch told him, and the girls all chattered away at once. Martin caught only a few snippets of what they were saying; “that horrible investigator, asking weird questions all the time – Herr Heim got angry when they made a mess of the workshop – you wouldn’t believe the way they talked about you, the nerve of him…”

None of them seemed bothered by standing before the auditorium’s door, right in the way of the audience that was just flooding out of the hall – it wasn’t ideal for a reunion celebration. But Martin was way too baffled to object. He hadn’t expected to be received with so much joy.

He’d actually planned to catch Anni who was just leaving the hall, followed by de Crinis. The latter glanced at Martin surrounded by his colleagues, and frowned. Anni looked to Martin as well, then to her professor – and then a corner of her mouth twitched and she quickly lowered her head. De Crinis left, and so did Anni, an expression of deliberate indifference plastered across her face.

“Now, quit the henhouse behavior already!” Sauerbruch scolded.

“Yes, boss,” Martin said – in unison with Fräulein Fritsch and the nurses who all stood at attention instantly, only to burst out in giggles upon realizing. Martin had a good mind to just giggle with them – he felt like drunk on the sudden freedom.

Sauerbruch rolled his eyes. “Off with you!” he barked. “Martin, you check back with the head nurse. We’ll talk later this evening.”

“Oh yes, the old bat will be glad to see you,” Angelika noted and caught Martin’s sleeve to drag him after herself while the Sauerbruchs stayed behind to talk to Professor Planck. Martin followed the rest of the group, having lost sight of Anni for now. _Damn_.

Head Nurse Elisabeth had nothing better to greet him with than a lecture. “We damn well missed your pair of hands!” she groused. “You’ll be here for the late shift this afternoon, and don’t forget to pick up the recent schedule!” One could think he’d skipped a few days. Nobody mentioned that he’d been arrested – or why.

Nobody said a word about Otto.

After he’d promised the head nurse that he wouldn’t get lost till the afternoon, no, really not, on his grandmother’s grave, he finally could go to the prosthesis workshop.

Herr Heim wasn’t around; he was welcomed by a quiet, empty room. And behind it, the storage room, his room – _Otto’s_ room. Looking at it made him think for the first time: _All of that has really happened_.

His suitcase had been taken out from under the bed. All of his things were scattered across the bedding, and the mattress itself had been dragged half from the frame to look beneath it. Someone had dumped both his and Otto’s photo collections on the floor and left them there.

Martin picked up the photographs, putting his back into the box where they belonged – on top of his Wound Badge so he didn’t have to look at it. At least, nothing seemed to be missing; Otto’s set of pictures was complete, too. Martin smiled when he reached for the one he’d been given, a mirthfully laughing Otto surrounded by his friends. It was an enormous relief that he hadn’t put it to his own stuff before the detention, but now? Who would say anything – it was his. He pocketed it.

Aside from the things Laura had brought to him in the psychiatry and which he’d get back tomorrow after a last short inspection, as Reichelt had said, almost everything was still there. Except for the cooker, for some reason – what did the police want with that? A puddle of paraffin had been left on the floor, and they hadn’t been too considerate with the rest, either. Someone had made a dent in his teakettle, and Otto’s Beethoven disc had a scratch. Martin sighed. Otto wouldn’t be happy when he learned of that. If he learned of it. Would Martin ever see him again?

This time, he wasn’t startled by the door. Hesitant steps in heeled shoes came closer, and when Martin turned over, there was Anni.

Like earlier in the auditorium, he found himself opposite a look that didn’t tell much about what was going on in her mind, just a world of caution. Martin owed this woman his life, and he knew practically nothing about her – it was like meeting her for the first time. Anni Waldhausen, née Marquardt, same jawline as Otto, same cheekbones. It was strange and a bit uncomfortable to see the familiar features like that, in cold self-restraint where Otto would just vent his feelings freely. A mouth like Otto’s, but without his smile. How similar they looked. How different they were.

“Why did you do this for me?” he asked.

Anni had a steady gaze on him. “I’m doing it for Otto.”

Martin’s heart began racing. _So it’s true. He asked her for help – he isn’t in a camp; he could ask for help; he’s alive_. “How is he? Is he still under arrest or back at the front already?”

They would handle it. Otto would survive, and even if he’d been given probation out of spite, they’d find a way with it… “Do you know the staircase to the roof in the hallway of your old room?” Anni asked.

For the second time in a day, Martin stared at someone incredulously. The roof – _why should Otto tell Anni about the attic_ – but how would he have written to her about anything, really; that was nothing to write in a letter – _they must have spoken in person_ – and Anni certainly hadn’t caught him in the caserne before he’d been carted off to France…

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that insane…” Martin blurted out.

Anni gave him a contemplative look. “You know him well,” she noted. “I didn’t understand it right away. He’s not a coward, after all.”

Martin shook his head, perplexed. “And what he told you made you decide to help me?”

Now, Anni contemplated the doorframe instead, plucking off a sliver of flaking paint. She frowned, and Martin recognized the look in her eyes; she’d had the same when she’d been asking Otto about some girl escorting him to his diploma ceremony. She didn’t seem to agree with what she now knew was between Otto and Martin – but neither did she seem exactly surprised.

“I got you out of there because Otto asked me to,” she said eventually, a grim tone cropping up in her voice. “But if you lose one word about the attic toward anyone, I’ll have no qualms to hand you back to de Crinis.”

Martin scoffed, once again in disbelief. He wouldn’t say anything if it were about some deserter he didn’t know, and now… At least he and Anni were of the same mind when it came to Otto. “Thank you.”

Anni shrugged and drew herself away from her study of the doorframe to look back at him. “I guess I should thank you, too. It would have been easy for you to lessen your own punishment by telling on Otto.”

That hit him like a well-timed punch. Martin took a deep breath. Shouting at his rescuer was not a good idea. But he couldn’t keep himself from scowling. “You have a very low opinion of me, don’t you?”

Anni looked more pensive than anything else. “I only just realized that I have to reassess a lot of my opinions. And I suppose I’m not an expert regarding your person, so…” Another shrug.

Well. It was something… it was actually quite a lot, Martin corrected himself, thinking of his parents. He was alive, and Otto was alive, and Anni would keep quiet. He couldn’t expect more than that. “What did you tell de Crinis?” he wanted to know.

That spark returned to Anni’s eyes. “That you’re an outrageous womanizer,” she told him wryly.

And that was it. Martin remembered de Crinis’ confused expression before the auditorium, the grin hidden in the corner of Anni’s mouth – because half the surgery ward’s girls had been hugging him. _Must have been quite a sight_. Martin began to laugh, a helpless, overwrought laughter near hysteria, and he had to hold onto the edge of the nightstand behind him so as not to fall.

Anni watched his outburst with half a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“I– yes, I think– I just have… the last days have been…” Martin breathed deeply. Dammit, why did he have to think of Anni making a face at Otto right now? He’d almost started laughing again. What was up with his brain? A few hours ago, he’d been about to kill himself, dammit! He took off his glasses, pinching his nose bridge between his fingers, and said the first thing that sprang to mind. “I’d really like a cigarette right now.”

“Oh, yes, so would I,” Anni agreed with a sigh. Martin was reasonably sure that she didn’t smoke – she probably had given it up when the baby had been on the way. She glimpsed at her watch and then at the door. “Listen, I have to go back to the pediatric ward. But you should go and see Otto as soon as possible. He’s been very worried about you.”

With that, she turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Martin said once more, really meaning it.

Anni’s reply consisted of yet another shrug; she didn’t look at him this time.

* * *

He had a bit more than half an hour left before the afternoon shift, and the upper floor was abandoned. The staff’s flats were empty, doors left open and offering view to increasingly dusty furniture. Martin scrambled over the bombing debris in the hallway and looked around warily, but he met no one on his way to the attic, either.

He felt weird, queasy even, climbing up the ladder. Martin wasn’t sure why he was nervous about this – it was not like he didn’t believe Anni, but… Pulling himself together, he opened the metal sheet door, went around the corner and peered into the room–

And there was Otto, hunched over a big basket on the floor, although he looked up when he heard the door shutting. “Martin!”

Martin almost fell over the wooden beams trying to get to Otto, but then, Otto had already reached him and pulled him close, and Martin embraced him and finally felt like arriving in reality. Otto was _here_ , he really _was_ , unhurt, healthy, _safe_. He was wearing civilian clothes, not the terrible uniform in which he’d said goodbye to Martin, and everything about him was so beautifully _familiar_ , the embrace, the hands holding him, the voice repeating close to his ear: “Martin,” and he sounded so damn _happy_.

The enormous relief was almost a shock to Martin. He’d spent so much time decidedly _not_ thinking of Otto that he’d hardly realized sometimes how much he’d missed him and feared for him.

Although a deserted soldier was reason enough to fret. Martin let go of him just enough to look at him, attempting a look of reproach. “Why did you desert?”

Otto beamed at him, his eyes blue and wide and twinkling. The admonishing tone had sailed right over his head. “I had to find out what happened to you.”

Martin couldn’t help his grin. “You’re a madman.” But in the end, he preferred Otto deserted and hidden over him being far away and in mortal danger at the Western front. They’d manage everything – they both were free and here and together. Martin felt like smothering Otto with kisses.

But he noticed for the first time that they weren’t alone. A motion he’d noticed from the corner of his eye drew his attention to the basket. A baby of several months age was in it, looking at Martin with big, curious eyes and making an inarticulate sound. It had been a long time since Martin had seen her, but there were only so many children that age he knew of…

“That’s Karin,” Otto said and followed it right up with answering the most obvious question: “I’m helping Anni to hide her from Artur. Because she’s disabled.” He caressed Karin’s cheek and sat a little stuffed bear that had been lying on the floor into her basket while Martin processed this new information.

Anni Waldhausen, role-model German and wife of esteemed Dr. Waldhausen, was hiding a disabled child from the Reich committee. And from her husband – _is Waldhausen really able to have his own child deported?_ And she hid her brother, a deserter. And had retrieved Martin from imprisonment, _knowing_ that he was a homosexual. He’d been completely mistaken about her. No wonder she’d demanded his silence so vehemently; Karin made her much more than a confidante.

Otto turned back to him, smiling with this expression Martin hadn’t seen on him since the day Hans had been arrested – genuine hope. “We just have to hold out. The Allied forces are in Strasbourg already, and the Russians have reached the Eastern Prussian border.”

Martin frowned. But that meant… the war was as good as over. It could only be a few months more… and so long, Otto would hide up here with the kid? In the collapse-prone attic? “What are you doing during the air raids?”

Otto shrugged. “I’m singing lullabies for Karin.”

 _Of course_. Martin was torn between relieved laughter because that was so very obviously _Otto_ and an exasperated sigh in the face of so much carefreeness. “And that helps against the Tommies,” he said dryly.

“You have no idea what a terrible singer I am,” Otto retorted.

This time, Martin laughed. _You shameless, reckless, wonderful idiot_ …

Otto caught his hand. “Come along!” He dragged him after himself to the panorama window that, by now, was covered with threadbare blankets. Otto plucked the upper edge of one blanket down for a few inches, peering out to the courtyard beneath them and the city skyline. “Here’s where I always stand thinking of you. When the others are down in the bunker at night, no one can see me.”

Martin couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in his chest even if he’d wanted to. Otto said that as if it was the most natural thing, that he’d constantly been thinking of him… that he hadn’t given up on Martin, long after Martin had given up on himself… He couldn’t think of anything to answer. Dammit, he wasn’t even sure if he could talk right now. So he pulled Otto close and kissed him. It felt like coming home.

When they parted, Martin remembered that he was to go to the ward. He couldn’t dawdle too much if he didn’t want to call up suspicions. There was a lot he wanted to talk about with Otto, thousands of questions he needed to ask… but they’d have time enough, later.

“Wait,” Otto said when Martin was about to leave. And then he was back with him and fiddled with something on the nape of his neck – and put his necklace around Martin’s neck. “You said you’d take it when we see again.”

He looked away, blushing like he’d been the last time. And Martin _understood_. It shouldn’t have been a parting present, no tragic keepsake, but a promise – instead of the promise they weren’t allowed to make. Like the question Martin had asked Otto a while back, in place of another that he couldn’t ask.

Before Otto could hide himself and his embarrassment returning to Karin, Martin had already gotten him back and hugged him again. “I love you,” he managed to whisper.

Otto nuzzled to his shoulder. “I kept holding onto that.”

* * *

Later, on the ward, Martin had gotten out of his happy stupor enough to start up some practical considerations. Otto didn’t get ration stamps anymore, he thought while changing wound dressings; he and Anni would have to feed the two in the hide-out. Perhaps he could get a few things on the black market. Dammit, if he had to, he’d sneak through the parks at night to steal firewood when Karin and Otto somehow had to stay warm in winter…

“Martin, can you help me with the laundry cart?” Anna called over from the door. “Mathilde will finish up here.”

Martin gave his colleague a questioning glance – and Mathilde lowered her head, only hinting at a nod. He wasn’t surprised. Not everyone on the ward was overjoyed by his return, and Mathilde was a Party comrade of Christel’s. Couldn’t be comfortable, to run into one’s subject of gossip.

However, most of the nurses didn’t appear any more reserved around him than usual. Anna told him about the patients they’d gotten in during the last weeks and about a huge tiff Herr Heim had been having with Sauerbruch because of the substandard prosthesis materials he currently had to work with. “I’m telling you, I never heard Heim yell like that,” Anna said as they maneuvered the cart around a bomb crater in the courtyard. “He was so angry about the bad metal – he says that’s getting bent out of shape in no time and ruins the joints.”

Martin listened, floating with everyday business, doing his work and loving it. Right now, he couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than distributing medicine, cleansing instruments and making beds. He noticed that it was strenuous after weeks of doing nothing – around 5 p.m., his leg started protesting against standing for such a long time – but even that was such a little nuisance that he could easily ignore it.

It could have been a great evening if not… well, if not for someone else being on the late shift, too, and eventually showing up on the main ward at the same time he was there. Martin heard her voice, self-righteously appalled, as she spoke to the doctor. “I refuse to work with a morality offender.”

Martin took a deep breath and pulled the sheet off the mattress before him with a tad more force than necessary. _Morality offender_. Would she even care if it weren’t about Otto?

He didn’t understand Dr. Sauerbruch’s reply, but Christel didn’t seem to like it, because she got louder. “No matter what Professor de Crinis wrote – Martin _did_ seduce Otto!” she insisted. Martin wondered if she believed that herself, but it didn’t diminish his anger. That woman sickened him.

“If you don’t want to work with him, you can get transferred,” Dr. Sauerbruch said coolly. “I’m certain the boss will help you to front service.” With that, she strutted out, not sparing another look for Christel who stood there struggling for composure.

He probably should have ignored her, Martin reprimanded himself later – but Christel _wouldn’t move_ , and there was work to do; so he didn’t care that his tone was caustic when he called: “Get a move on, will you?”

Christel shot him a murderous glare. Martin kept folding blankets, and finally, she walked to the beds.

Martin had no inclination to oversee her work – she was a nurse; she knew the ropes. He didn’t expect politeness from her, but he could expect her to do her job. They could just go on with their mutual dislike in silence; that had always worked out nicely.

Only, Christel came to a halt next to him and grabbed, unbidden, for the golden pendant that had slipped from his collar as he’d reached for the next bedsheet. Because she _still couldn’t_ keep her hands to herself! “Where’d you get that?”

And with that, he’d had it.

This _beast_ hadn’t stopped coming on to Otto – fine. She had talked Martin down at every turn – whatever. But after denouncing them both, hoping that Martin would be brought to the camp, perhaps even that Otto would come groveling to her afterward and beg her to take pity on him, this miserable person had the nerve to get anywhere near him and paw at the necklace – the talisman that Otto had given him, as if _she_ had any _right_ to touch that – because she looked for yet another lead to denigrate him – and Martin was so incredibly _sick_ of her!

He got her quicker than Christel could recoil. She froze in his grip, his hands around her neck. He could feel her swallow, try to gasp for air. For a second, he was tempted. _I would have been ringing for air like that, too, you vile piece of shit – I already had the rope in place. And you made sure of that. You would have let me do it myself; you would have watched and laughed at it_.

Christel stared at him, her eyes wide and fearful. “One wrong word, and I _will_ kill you!” Martin hissed. It wasn’t hyperbole, he realized. He would murder her if she ever gave him a reason again.

A moment too late, he got frightened of the thought – that he actually _wanted_ to kill someone; not even as a soldier, he’d ever had a desire for that – and he let go of her, grabbing his stack of laundry and leaving.

* * *

Martin woke up drenched in sweat, his head full of images of horror – a comrade bleeding out beneath his hands as Martin desperately pressed gauze to his bullet wound, his mother bludgeoning him with a broom while she yelled obscenities, a voice snarling into his ear while hands pushed him against a tiled wall, Leibfried’s contemptuous smile. Christel locked the door of a bleak white room, and somewhere far away, Theo screamed, screamed and _didn’t stop_ …

However, it wasn’t Theo. That was a baby crying.

Martin opened his eyes, still trapped in that awful feeling that he needed to run and couldn’t. _Just a nightmare – get it together, Schelling; it was just a dream_. Only nothing of that was very far away. Less than a day had passed since he’d been intent on strangling himself.

Now he found himself in a dark room that smelled like wood and dust and paraffin. The bed creaked and the mattress dipped a bit when Otto sat down next to him. Martin looked up at him. In the lamp’s dim light, he just about discerned Karin, lying in the crook of Otto’s arm and whining.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Otto said quietly. “She’s a bit restless these days. Perhaps you’d sleep better down in the workshop.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Martin murmured.

Otto looked at him, glumly compassionate, and while he softly rocked Karin in one arm, his free hand grasped Martin’s so he could put a kiss on it. He wasn’t trying for any platitudes to appease him – he knew this sort of dreams too well. “I’m right here,” was all he said.

Martin scooted closer. He was too tired to really sit up, but he leaned his head to Otto’s side and clutched his hand. Otto was here, Martin was with him. He had to remember that.

Otto talked quietly to Karin, telling her sweet nothings. His thumb circled in Martin’s palm, over and over, and Martin focused on the motion, the warm, slightly coarse skin, the hushed, familiar voice, and he felt a bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, the last two chapters have been hard; have some reunion joy and fluffy happiness... NAH, have emotional whiplash and murderous rage and nightmares! _*evil cackling*_
> 
> The idea to interpret Otto's giving the necklace to Martin like that has showed up in EffervescentYellow's "if that's what it takes" before; here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852544/chapters/61256674#workskin  
> So, yeah, I didn't mean to plagiarize; I just wasn't the first to think of it. 
> 
> And as to Anni - as has been heavily foreshadowed in my story so far, I've written her as at least having had an idea about Otto. It's the vibe I got from the show. She wasn't aghast enough when he told her - way too easily ready to just deny it.


	17. Calm between the Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, for here there be smut. You know the drill, folks – if you're not a fan, just skip out when Martin starts getting awkward about Otto and come back for the pillow talk (after the last separation line).

“Can you do me a favor?” Laura muttered when she joined him in the OR bunker to help him cleanse the instruments after the last surgery of the day. The way she looked around herself before didn’t bode well.

Martin frowned. “I’m not in the mood for anything that’ll hound me back to the police.”

Laura sighed in exasperation. “My sister has been put under detention for being too amiable to foreign workers on the abbey grounds. She might be sent to a labor camp; I have to go look after her boy. Can you take over my nightshift?”

“The entire week?” Martin asked incredulously. He noticed how petty he sounded about it, but he hated the nightshift, among other things because it left him only the choice to try and get a few hours of sleep during the day in the workshop while Herr Heim was working or go upstairs to the attic – where Karin’s sleep pattern had turned Otto into an early bird.

Laura looked at him pleadingly, reaching into the pocket of her apron and producing a handful of ration stamps – for tobacco. Laura didn’t smoke, and she’d saved five stamps, still valid, four cigarettes each. And Angelika had introduced Martin to one of her acquaintances who was willing to spend quite a bit on cigarettes.

Martin calculated quickly. A bottle of milk and a package of semolina for Karin, a few potatoes, a bit of meat for Otto. Some butter or cheese, if he was lucky. He took the paper stamps. “Good luck to your sister and your nephew,” he said, and Laura smiled briefly.

Still, Martin wasn’t thrilled to inform the head nurse of his swapping with Laura. One of the most important reasons why he loved working at the hospital was that it was busy. On the nightshift, he didn’t have much to keep himself from brooding. The silence, the idleness – it drove him insane. In the beginning, he’d spent his night watches restlessly wandering the ward and controlling the rooms, until Head Nurse Elisabeth had told him to quit making the patients nervous.

Not that the alternative was any more appealing: If there was something going on at night, it was due to an air raid.

“Is it such a great idea to bring the kid to the city?” he’d asked Laura and gotten a shrug for it.

“With the Soviets coming from one side and the Tommies from the other, he’s not any better off out there,” she’d noted. “And at least I’ve got someone here who can keep him while I’m at work – Herr Fischer will take him in for now and make sure he goes to school and behaves.”

Martin didn’t think school would be going on for much longer; he’d learned from a few of their younger patients that there were hardly teachers left at the schools, that lessons were often suspended for hours while everyone crawled into the shelters when the sirens went off, never mind that pupils were put up for collecting rags and metal scraps or to help with the harvest.

“I’d rather have Math,” a twelve-year-old kid had griped after getting a small bomb fragment into his hand during those collection activities and having to have it removed by Dr. Hansen.

At least Laura had an ally she could count on – Herr Fischer, the tremor-sick veteran to whom she’d taken a liking last year. In comparison, their situation was rather isolated, Martin thought; he, Otto and Anni could only rely on each other.

The siblings’ hope to sneak Karin out of the city and hide her away at the place of Anni’s and Otto’s mother in Bavaria had fallen through because there were no more travel permits for staff vital to the war. Anni had given an indignant account of how bluntly she’d been told that she as a doctor wouldn’t go anywhere until the war was over.

Otto had laughed at her irritation, but that had obviously been a hard blow to him, and not just because of Karin: When Martin had asked him later, he’d admitted how much it gnawed on him that his mother was still fearing for her deserted son. Meeting her in person, Anni could have at least told her that Otto was alive and, well, _relatively_ safe. That was nothing for a letter.

Some were luckier than them, though, Martin thought as he rummaged through the storage cabinet and pocketed a bar of soap – Dr. Sauerbruch had put her daughter up with her family in Saxony…

“Please put that back, Martin,” a calm voice said behind him.

Martin winced and blushed up to roots of his hair. One second Dr. Sauerbruch cropped up in his thoughts, the next she stood behind him, leaning on the doorframe of the storage chamber and smiling benignly at him as she raised an eyebrow.

Shame burned its way through his throat as he faced her and put the soap back to its shelf. He was quite certain that Dr. Sauerbruch had been involved in his getting hired at Charité back then – he’d seen her glimpsing at him every once in a while when the mail had been distributed among the patients and he’d never gotten any, and eventually, her sympathy had grown into genuine friendliness. To get caught stealing by _her_ of all people… Martin wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

“I’msorryDoctor,” he mumbled and tried to get past her to go find a quiet corner where he could die from disgrace.

“Wait a moment,” Dr. Sauerbruch said. She didn’t yell it. Different than her husband, she hardly ever raised her voice.

But there was steel in it. Martin stood still. The professor having all the titles didn’t make her any less of his boss.

Dr. Sauerbruch eyed him attentively. Eventually, she closed the chamber door and beckoned Martin to follow her.

Martin felt his heart sinking. _Crap. Goddamn crap_. Now he had done it; he’d forfeited his job. And thrown out into the streets, there was nothing he could do for Otto and Karin – not even see them; of course he’d have to leave the hospital site. He opened his mouth without getting any words out, because what should he have said to defend himself? Dr. Sauerbruch had seen him and knew very well what he’d been doing…

“Here.” She came to a halt at the side door to the main ward. The laundry cart stood there full of dirty towels, waiting to be discarded, and in the bin nearby, rags towered up that the nurses hadn’t been able to get back into a usable state. And there was an old washstand pitcher containing… “Soap leftovers,” Dr. Sauerbruch said. “Nobody will notice if you take them. They’re not as pretty or handy as the new ones, but that’s why we always get replenishments. The scraps aren’t counted into the inventory.”

Martin had to have been looking like a cow in a thunderstorm, because Dr. Sauerbruch smiled again.

He tried for a coherent sentence, failing miserably. “I… Frau Doktor… thank you, I mean… I’m sorry…”

She shrugged. “Honestly, I’m glad you have someone to take care of for a change. Although I’m not sure how long you’ll be able to; with what they’re telling from the fronts, we might be stuck here for a while yet.” After a moment, she added in a warning tone: “Don’t go for the medicine without asking.”

“No – no, of course not,” Martin stammered, but Dr. Sauerbruch had already turned over and strode off. Martin sagged backwards against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He was surrounded by far better people than he deserved.

* * *

When he left the building, the pitcher had lost two handful of crumbly soap scraps which Martin had hidden away in the workshop. All he was carrying with himself were Otto’s leather bag, some money and the ration stamps he’d tucked into the inner pocket of his coat.

Martin walked in a hurry and with his head bowed, shoulders hunched and face shaded by his cap; he didn’t want anyone to recognize him on this walk to _Elsässer Straße_. If someone did, he could say he was going to the movie theater. Well, it wasn’t wrong.

He usually loved this time of the year when the weather got brisk enough to make him feel alive but not cold enough to hurt, when the trees turned up with an amazing array of colors but the sky was still blue after downpours. Berlin in autumn was a beauty – well, had been before every corner had been adorned with a ruin.

Now, the cold wind preceding the winter worried him. The attic was not exactly weatherproof. Otto would probably just about make it through the season, but how could Karin? Perhaps he or Anni could find a brazier somewhere.

Martin was alone when he reached the movie theater and uneasily looked around himself for his trading partner. He didn’t want to wait until evening and risk getting the police’s attention for suspicious loitering. As he considered walking a round, the door opened, and the audience of the afternoon program flocked out of the theater – or rather trickled; movies weren’t exactly high priority these days.

Among the crowd was a middle-aged man in a faded black coat who looked around himself surreptitiously, caught Martin’s glance and briefly tapped the brim of his hat before he turned away.

Martin let him walk a bit on his own and then went after him. The following conversation was held from a meter distance and from the corners of their mouths, neither of them looking at the other or making otherwise known that they weren’t strangers. Indeed, they were – the man had insisted on them keeping their names to themselves so, in doubt, the police wouldn’t learn too much. Martin assumed that Angelika could have told him with whom she had acquainted him, but it was not like he needed to know.

A brief but tenacious negotiation ensued. Martin left _Elsässer Straße_ by necessity as a non-smoker but rather content with the outcome – no butter, but some paraffin. Otto sometimes needed more for the cooker Martin had missed in the workshop; Anni had brought it up to the attic.

Water was more of an issue. Back at Charité, Martin decided he’d bring some upstairs to Otto, and went to the laundry chamber next to the stairs to get a couple buckets.

Different than the electricity, the water pipes in the upper floors hadn’t been shut off yet, although Martin suspected it was only a matter of time. If one of the pipes got damaged, Otto’s sneaking down off the attic to use the toilet next to the staff flats or one of the sinks would come to an end. Anni already insisted on Otto taking as few risks as possible. Martin actually agreed with her on that, but he wasn’t looking forward to the mood Otto would be in once he had to give him or Anni a bucket with his excrements once a day.

At the stairway, Martin took a moment of respite, firstly because carrying two ten-liter buckets of water and the bag of food was straining his hip, secondly because the ladder was lying on the upper ledge. Anni had to be there.

Martin caught his breath and then went to pick up two pieces of the rubble in the hallway, tossing them against the attic door in close succession.

About a minute passed. Then the door was opened cautiously, just wide enough to let a person through, and a head full of blond curls appeared at the edge of the floor, followed by a pair of eyes that traded their wary look for a relieved one when they spotted him. “Martin?”

He waved to her. “Ladder, please.”

At the beginning of their shared fate, he’d occasionally tried to talk more lightly with her, but Anni had never picked up on his attempts to ease up their interactions, and Martin had noticed quickly that she preferred him being curt.

“Wait, I’ll help you,” she said nonetheless and, as soon as the ladder stood in place, climbed down to grab for the first bucket. Martin was grateful for it – the ladder wasn’t much fun for him even without the lopsided weight.

“Otto will be glad,” she noted when she came to get the second bucket. “He’s sorely missing the showers.”

Martin winced, but luckily, Anni didn’t see it. He’d needed weeks to go and use the showers again instead of locking himself into the prosthesis workshop with a bowl of water. Well, Otto would be spared that sort of anxiety.

Upstairs, he followed Anni with his bag and thought that Otto really had enough to deal with already – he didn’t complain, but there were times when he dithered between a skittish, edgy temper and complete listlessness. The loneliness in the attic was eating away at him. If it went on for longer, he’d probably go crazy…

No, Martin corrected himself with a sudden smile; he’d go crazy if it weren’t for _Karin_.

He had apparently not been the first to make today a washing day; Otto was just getting a splash of water from Karin who sat in a tin basin, slapping her little hands on the water surrounding her and cheerfully babbling unintelligible news at the world altogether.

“It’s wonderful that you like bathing so much,” Otto said to her. “Your grandma used to tell me that cleanliness is a virtue.”

“She also told you to stay in Oberallgäu, marry Marleen and become a beekeeper, and now look at you,” Anni quipped.

Otto looked at her and set up to answer, but when he caught Martin’s grin, he shut his mouth again.

Anni put the buckets down and went to lit the cooker to heat up the water. “You can carry on with your own cleanliness now that Karin has set an example.”

“Thanks!” Otto beamed at both of them and promptly failed to dodge the wave Karin hurled over his shirt. Anni laughed and was targeted for a mock-stern glower. “You ought to teach your child better manners!”

For a split second, Anni glanced at Martin before smiling at her brother again. “Not now; I’ve got to head out before Artur starts wondering where I am.” Karin got a kiss on the head and so did Otto; then Anni scurried off. The door clanked dully and her steps on the ladder were audible for a moment before the hallway got quiet. Her haste made Martin wonder if she shunned his presence or was just uncomfortable being around him and Otto at the same time.

Otto seemed to think something similar, rolling his eyes.

Martin passed him Karin’s towel and teased: “So, who’s the poor girl Lili Marleen you left broken-hearted under the corner light?”

Otto lifted Karin from her tub and swaddled her in the towel until nothing but a round, wide-eyed face was visible of her. “Broken-hearted she was, but there’s one thing my sister never really got: Marleen had a crush on Anni, not on me.”

Well. That was not what he’d expected. “Really?”

“Yes. I think I was the only one who even noticed, then– can you hold her for a moment?” With that, he gave Karin to Martin.

Martin took her on his arm, well-practiced by now. In the beginning, Karin hadn’t been happy at all to be held by him, but he’d realized soon that it was the sharp smell of the detergent on his working coats that she loathed. Now that he wasn’t wearing one, the kid nestled contentedly to his shoulder with no greater concern than the question if she should wear Martin’s glasses herself today or just eat them.

“After that, Marleen and I started to roam the town together. She was never up to any good – we shared our first cigarette,” Otto told while peering out of the window and, when he found the coast clear, emptying the washing basin over the rain gutter. “Because of her, Mother didn’t worry all that much, but honestly? It was Marleen who taught me how to talk to girls in the first place.”

Martin smirked. “We have a lot to thank her for, then,” he japed, remembering Otto’s ice-melting looks and his velvet voice towards the female nurses. Then he paused and retrieved Otto’s photo from his pocket. “A girl with freckles and a mop of dark hair?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Otto confirmed when he came back from the window, and smiled fondly at the picture. “The one with the annoyed look, that’s her.”

“And the curly guy next to you?” Martin inquired. Admittedly, this time he expected the reaction he got.

“Friedrich,” Otto mumbled and avoided his gaze, his cheeks a tad pink. Suddenly, he was very busy digging through Karin’s clothes on the shelf.

Martin laughed quietly, but he didn’t go further into it. He certainly wouldn’t make fun of Otto for having sweet memories of his first love.

Instead, he busied himself drying off Karin who’d started to get sleepy. He was a little surprised though to pull the towel from her head and find her hair cropped to an inch instead of the usual tumble of dark blond curls. It hadn’t been obvious earlier, but now that her hair was dried, it stuck to all directions like down feathers. “Aw, poor lamb, did they sheer you?”

“Don’t make a drama of it,” Otto said and brought fresh diapers and baby clothes. “A shame, but she was throwing such a fit everytime we came up with the comb; that couldn’t go on.” He put Karin down on the changing table that had formerly been a mangle. When the upper floor had been shot full of holes, the rollers had been broken off, but the table was free of splinters and thus perfectly usable.

While Otto set to the task that had long since become routine, Martin took care of the water heating. He just pondered telling of his awkward failure at stealing soap when Otto asked: “Anything new on the Western front?”

“Oh, yes – they’re still fighting at Hürtgenwald, but Aachen is down,” Martin reported, making Otto perk up his ears. “Wilck wasn’t as smart as Choltitz, though; the Amis made a mess of the place before the idiot gave up on it. Didn’t you listen to the radio today?”

“Only for a few minutes in the morning, and they didn’t stop wailing about Rommel.” Otto growled derisively. “They don’t even seem to agree what killed him – a few days ago, it was a car crash; now, Rundstedt is blathering something of the field of honor.”

Karin, swaddled and dressed by now, got her hat on and was put into her basket. Otto had a skeptical glance for the latter. “She’s growing too tall for that,” he observed. “We need to get her a real bed one of these days.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Martin promised.

Otto was a rather skilled craftsman and had put a lot of time into repurposing damaged furniture from the staff flats to make the inhospitable attic a place to live. But even that filled only so many days, and that Otto had Martin tell him at length about work while he went about shaving and washing made clear just how much he missed his colleagues, his fellow students, the freedom to move about the city. Martin rebuked himself mentally for getting moody over a few days of night watch; it didn’t compare to Otto’s situation.

Anni had apparently brought him a few new books, though. Martin eyed the collection on the shelf that was a little bigger than the last time – all that would keep him from staring at Otto who wasn’t exactly shy to run around naked in Martin’s line of sight. Why should he, anyway. But, Martin thought while stubbornly keeping his back toward Otto, that wasn’t quite the same. Their earlier trysts here had been in the dark, not in the middle of the day; they’d always relied more on their hands than their eyes.

“I’ve drafted up an overarching question and a first structure for my thesis,” Otto just said, jolting Martin from his thoughts. When had they come around to that subject?

 _Oh, what the hell!_ He knew he had some weird inhibitions about visible – one could say, exhibited – nudity. That wasn’t because of Otto. It was because of the prison, because of being exposed to the other inmates like something they could hunt. Because of Teubner taking his prosthesis and leaving him sitting on the floor, naked and unable to move.

“Martin?” This time, Otto waited for Martin to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “When did you stop listening?”

Martin felt his face getting hot. Did Otto _have_ to look like that? “When you started getting undressed,” he said frankly.

At least, Otto laughed blithely about that and turned back to his washing water. Which meant that Martin got to see his backside instead, including the tiny rivulets of water trickling from his shoulders and down his spine. _Goddammit_.

Alright, this was ridiculous, Martin decided. Most of all because he wasn’t sixteen.

It was also ridiculous because they hadn’t done anything of the sort since he’d come back from prison – sure, they slept in the same bed, and there’d been plenty of hugs and kisses, but…

“Can you help me with the back?”

Martin looked up. Otto just kept washing his arms, and his tone had been absolutely casual. Martin cleared his throat. “Sure.” With that, he came over, taking the washcloth Otto handed him without even glimpsing behind himself.

Otto felt warm even through the fabric Martin scrubbed over his skin. Martin let his hands wander up Otto’s shoulder blades and back down, feeling him shift his weight a bit – what the hell was he thinking curving his back to Martin’s touch like that? He tilted his head forward, chin almost down to his chest, the nape of his neck exposed to Martin and making his mouth dry.

Martin resisted the urge to let his fingers slide down further when he reached the small of Otto’s back, dragging the rag over his flanks instead. Otto still gave an entirely unperturbed impression, standing there relaxed and calm as if he hadn’t the faintest idea of the water droplets rolling down his jawline and to his collarbone. Martin found he had a good mind to follow the very same path with his tongue. He couldn’t help the frustrated huff that escaped him, his breath cooling Otto’s wet skin and making him shiver for a moment.

And Otto made some kind of noise, tiny, hardly audible, but it sounded sort of… agonized.

That was when Martin realized that Otto’s ribs were trembling ever so slightly under his hands. Martin looked up. Otto still had his head bowed, his eyes focused firmly on some point before him, and he wasn’t standing relaxed _at all_. He was taut from his feet to his shoulders, his hands halfway to clenching up to fists, and Martin could just about see that his lips were pressed shut to a thin line.

He dropped his hands from Otto’s waist. “Are you _laughing_?”

“No,” Otto insisted. His voice was the sort of shaky that betrayed the helpless twitch in the corners of his mouth.

And just like that, Martin’s tension gave way to a sudden desire to laugh – because why was he on edge about this oversized _brat_? They were alone here, for heaven’s sake; Anni wouldn’t be back until next day, and Karin had dozed off into a blissful post-bathing nap.

Also, Otto was a brat. A gorgeous brat, but still.

Martin tossed the washcloth into the water basin and didn’t even bother with a retort before he grabbed Otto with one hand around his waist and one on his hip and yanked him close. If what had been in Otto’s mouth had been a bout of laughter, it rather explosively dissolved in a breathy sigh when Martin bit down on his neck, not even bothering with trying to be gentle because Otto obviously didn’t care. He just grabbed Martin’s arms with his own, tightening their embrace and tipping his head back so Martin could reach more of him with his lips and teeth.

Annoying was just the damn shirt, soaking wet now that Martin was clinging to Otto like that. Martin had to let go with at least one hand to get his tie and shirt out of the way, which prompted Otto to try and turn around to help him. “Wait, let me…”

Martin stopped him by gripping his arm and resumed his attentions on Otto’s neck. Otto moaned quietly, his head sinking down again, and he just propped his hands up on the washstand and held still. As long as Martin kept suckling and biting on the soft skin before him, he’d have his hands free to take care of things.

Not for long though – the second his shirt and tie fell to the ground, Otto made a step back to nestle to him. Martin quickly got his hands around him again, one circling their way up Otto’s ribcage and to his nipples while the other wandered down his stomach. He’d actually been planning to get out of his trousers, too, before he tripped himself on the braces, but that didn’t work so well when Otto was busy grinding his butt against Martin’s crotch. Instead of objecting, Martin just followed the motion, slowly rubbing himself against him, which made Otto hum contentedly.

While he focused on the body writhing in his arms, Otto’s hand came up to briefly caress Martin’s cheek and then pluck the glasses off his nose – good thing, too, because they were starting to get misty from the warm water, and they kept getting in his way when Martin was nuzzling Otto’s shoulders.

It could have been all well and nice with them doing what they were doing, except Otto started to lean on him as he was getting comfortable, which was not too comfortable for Martin’s leg. Eventually, he steered Otto towards the bed and nudged him softly. Otto caught his hand and just dragged him after himself.

The result was that they landed on the bed in some sort of big heap, arms and legs entangled, and Martin heard Otto chuckle and gripped his hair to shift his head a bit sideways because he wanted to see him smile, because he just wanted to _kiss_ that smile. Otto let him for a while before he pulled his legs out from where they had been pinned beneath Martin’s so he could get to his knees instead, his hand fumbling between the sheets. Martin let him to searching for condoms and ointment since it gave him time enough to finally strip of his trousers and prosthesis.

Then he scooted closer to get his arms to both sides of Otto’s, dropping light kisses all across his back while he made his way up to get on eye height with him again. Otto grunted and shoved the ointment tin to his hand, pressing his butt right up against Martin’s cock in a pretty unmistakable request.

Well, Martin wasn’t averse to his cock getting flanked by two firm butt cheeks, but he was a bit at a loss regarding preparations. He didn’t want to open a distance between them again, mainly because getting air between them meant Otto would start freezing his skin off due to the water cooling on his skin. But holding himself up on one hand, one leg and his stump was seriously not a comfortable solution.

That was when Otto arched his back up to just support Martin’s weight, sighing happily as he got to feel all of him at once that way. _Alright then_.

Martin reached down, smearing too much ointment into the cleft of Otto’s butt, but whatever, better than too little. And then Otto groaned, a long, low, breathy noise that Martin had difficulties not to echo as he slipped his finger into him.

“Shh,” he still hushed Otto because there was such a thing as an echo in the attic. Otto let his head drop down and moaned into the sheet instead, but he kept grinding his hips toward the pushes of Martin’s hand, taking a deep breath, quivering and relaxing again when Martin used two fingers and then three to stretch him.

Eventually, Martin pulled back and sat back on his heel, hurrying to get the condom on because the plaintive way Otto panted his name did all kinds of weird things to his mind, and he just had to remind himself to go slow – _slow, dammit!_ – and not just slam forward into the delicious tight heat that received him. A shaky exhale escaped him, and then he put a kiss into Otto’s hair and reached down, getting one hand around Otto’s half-hard cock and massaging him slowly while he rested his head on the warm shoulder before him.

Because it was there anyway, Martin thought it would be a waste not to suck Otto’s earlobe between his libs and nibble on it. It slipped away a moment later, though, because Otto moved. He managed to turn his head far enough to look back at Martin over his shoulder, panting and with flushed cheeks, and there was there were those damn blue eyes holding his gaze, and Otto opened his mouth to try and stammer something. “Please… please, can y…”

Martin didn’t know what Otto had wanted to say because that was when he just leaned down to kiss him, even at that awkward angle. He got a muffled grunt as a reply, and Otto burrowed a hand in Martin’s hair and tugged his head up close – apparently, that was what he’d been asking for, because he didn’t let go anymore. Martin propped himself up on one arm next to Otto’s body so he wouldn’t just crush him with his weight, but his chest still was pressed flush to Otto’s back, as were his hips against Otto’s butt, them lined up from shoulder to knees, the vague dampness between them hardly noticeable in all that _heat_ , and Otto _pushed backwards_.

A gasp escaped Martin, but even as he started to move, he tried to keep up the kiss; he just loved the way Otto’s groans and sighs felt against his mouth. As he thrust harder, Otto didn’t seem to be able to focus anymore though; his head fell back down, not quite stifling his breathless cries.

“Martin– Martin, _please_ –” Otto arched up beneath him, trying to meet his movements, but he didn’t get far with the way he clawed into the bedding and tried to drown out his moans by hiding his face on the mattress. Martin reached for his hand, finding it and lacing his fingers through Otto’s, squeezing them in tandem with his other hand squeezing Otto’s cock, getting a whimper in response and pushing further into him.

He didn’t think he’d be able to keep going for much longer – but he didn’t need to, as that was when he felt Otto squirm in his grip, letting out a stuttering moan and all but curling up on himself when he came. Martin kept stroking him during his climax, but then Otto unwound under him; only his hand came up to grasp around the back of Martin’s neck and pull him down on his own.

Martin followed the invitation and set his mouth on Otto’s searing hot skin, not daring to bite because he would have hurt Otto now that everything coiled up and became so unbearably _tight_ – _ah, dammit_ – and Martin just wanted to keep him like that, all up close to him and holding him in place– _Otto, here, alive, happy, with him_ – Martin couldn’t hold himself up any longer; he just buried Otto beneath himself as he finished.

He only got back out of the soft haze surrounding his mind when Otto moved. He pulled a bit forward, gasping quietly as they parted, and Martin felt Otto’s relief smearing on his hand. He leisurely wiped his fingers on the bedsheet, rolling off to the side.

This time, Otto followed him, turning to face him, and Martin was too exhausted to stop him and wouldn’t have wanted to, because all Otto did was press to his side and nuzzle his throat, his breath ghosting shakily over Martin’s skin.

The sudden goosebumps he developed from that made him realize just how damp they both were after Martin had been all over Otto halfway through his bath. Really, it had probably not been Martin’s best idea to fling him on the bed wet as he was. But when he made a move to get up and look for the towels, Otto dragged him back down and just pretty much pulled himself on his chest so he could lie on him and keep him from moving.

“Stay with me,” he muttered drowsily, and Martin found himself both unwilling and unable to deny him _that_.

Still. They’d probably have to change the sheets soon, because if Anni ever saw the stains and put two and two together, she’d have a seizure.

* * *

Sometime later, they’d finally managed to dry off and get under the blankets. Otto had leaned his back to Martin’s chest, Martin had wrapped his arm around him and was nuzzling his neck, and Otto’s fingers roamed the hand lingering on his sternum. Dusk had set in outside, but Martin hoped he’d be able to stay awake for a while yet – otherwise the next day’s nightshift would be a right torture.

“You know, it’s been more than a year since we’ve met,” Otto said quietly.

Martin went through the dates. Karin’s first birthday had been a week ago, and she’d been born a few weeks after Otto’s arrival in Berlin. “Feels longer, somehow,” he muttered.

Otto rolled to his back so he could glance at Martin over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Why, are you getting tired of me?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Sure, sounds about right,” he retorted and pulled him tighter to himself again before answering more truthfully. “I told you more of me than I did anyone else before in five years or more. You know more about me than my own parents do.”

“Weird,” Otto said, entwining his fingers with Martin’s. “When we met first, I thought it would be difficult to get you to tell anything. You wouldn’t even tell me your name.”

“Really?” Martin tried to recall Otto’s first day on the ward, meeting him at Lohmann’s bed. He’d been pretty indifferent, all things considered… No. That wasn’t right. He’d _wanted_ to be indifferent. Had turned away quickly and decided to feel nothing about it. Taking refuge in the thought that Otto was too friendly, too sunny. That it couldn’t be genuine.

He felt Otto shrug. “I thought it was a pity. I’d heard you talk to the veterans; you were so comradely with the others. Made me think it shouldn’t be tough to become friends with you, but… you didn’t seem to like me.” There was a trace of uncertainty in his voice, a question not asked.

Martin put a kiss on his neck. “When I met you first… I didn’t want to like you,” he admitted. “I tried to tell myself that you were a good little Nazi or something.”

Otto tensed, his head jolting up and almost knocking Martin’s jaw. “What? _Why_?”

“Because you looked at me like that, right from the beginning. You stood there and beamed at me, and I thought…” Martin took a breath. _Go on, coward. We already tried that at Christmas_. “I was scared. I think I knew that, if I started to like you, it wouldn’t be just a little bit.” He sighed, albeit not in regret. How often had he demanded of himself to be sensible in the months that had followed? And how often had he ignored his own advice?

Otto whirled over beneath his arm and cradled Martin’s face between his hands to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmured at his mouth.

Martin was more than happy to just lie there and keep kissing Otto. But that was when Karin – the girl had an impeccable sense of timing – woke up and began to loudly bemoan the lack of a supper.

Otto let go of Martin to bury his face in the pillow and growl something incomprehensible and slightly miffed.

Martin laughed and tousled his hair before he sat up and searched the floor for his trousers. “Well, which one’s your task? Humoring the kid or peeling potatoes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. Martin has some issues, but I wasn't in the mood for angst (we'll get back to that later), so you get Otto being an unrepentant tease. 
> 
> This chapter was more difficult than the result looks – because I had a lot of ideas for separate scenes in that time frame of several months that passed between episodes 5 and 6, but I just couldn't get them to flow right into each other. So instead of cramming them all in one incoherent bit, I'll go and spread them over several chapters (woo, dragging out!) and see if I can work better if I give my thought shreds some space. 
> 
> Elsässer Straße was the name of what is part of the Torstraße these days. And there was a RIDICULOUS amount of movie theaters in Berlin even during the last years of the war. 
> 
> I think I mentioned "Lili Marleen" before, but if not, Martin's comment about the girl waiting under the corner light is a reference to that song. 
> 
> The news – after getting Hitler's order to fight till Last Man Standing and then burn the rest to the ground, Dietrich von Choltitz surrendered Paris without a battle on August 25 of 1944. Heh. I find that hilarious.  
> Erwin Rommel was handed a bottle of potassium cyanide on October 14 by the Army Command with the notion that it would be that or the court martial. Rommel decided to go out quietly; so the regime kept stylizing him as a Hero Of The German People instead of the confidant of the 20 July plot and coup supporter that he was.  
> Damned Hürtgenwald battles went from October 1944 to February 1945 because the US army wasn't doing well in the forest territory, which meant they needed much longer than they could have had they circumvented the area.  
> Aachen fell on October 21, and I won't respect Gerhard Wilck for "holding out" that long. It cost too many.  
> Lots of stuff happening; times were busy. 
> 
> Martin's guess on how much food he'd get for how many cigarettes is, honestly, a little pulled out of my ass. The only information about the value of cigarette currency I found was regarding the post-war black market and American cigarettes, and I suspect that during the last months of the war itself and for German war economy cigarettes, the prices weren't nearly as high, so I had to improvise. Dishonor on my graduation. 
> 
> Otto is starting to suffer from isolation blues, school isn't working the way it should... no, sir, I'm not taking inspiration from real life, not at all! _*sigh*_ To my German readers – hang in there. It won't last forever. To everyone, Happy Halloween, for what it's worth. Or Reformation Day, whatever you like.


	18. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's a chapter gotten ready early! Also a long one because the semester has finally started and I'm busy again, so it might be a while before I can write again. Have this for now. 
> 
> Anni will use an outdated term for Down Syndrome that's considered highly offensive these days, and I'm aware of that. It's just - Anni isn't. I may be very unhappy about that, but it would be what she learned as the scientific term. Yeah, I know, "scientific". What that means to Nazis, you know. 
> 
> Warning for violence against an animal - it's brief, but might not be pretty to read. I didn't tag it because there's only a tag for animal abuse, not for an improper slaughter, but that's what it is. 
> 
> Other than that, there might be wanton cruelty against the Bavarian language. I hope not, but if the phonetic transcription isn't correct, feel free to yell at me.

Martin rubbed his eyes as he walked upstairs. The interrogation the evening prior had taken time – Leibfried was testy about him ever since his acquittal – and today, Dr. Jung had gotten him from the workshop at the crack of dawn so he’d assist in an emergency surgery, although he’d let him go earlier in turn. Perhaps he could catch up on a few hours of sleep, provided Karin wasn’t feeling too bad.

Back in November, the three of them had sealed the attic against any wind, but that didn’t make it exactly warm, and Karin had still caught a flu. She was crying a lot and not sleeping well, and Otto who was a huge mother hen anyway would hardly give her out of his hands anymore.

However, Karin had gotten old enough to have a mind of her own. She didn’t want to stay beneath the towel for steam inhalation and strictly refused to drink fennel tea. At least Anni had said she could get something for the kid’s fever, which cheered Martin up a bit.

He came around the corner to the attic – to find Anni, sitting on the floor with a tied-up bundle on her lap and looking into the void. She nodded to him without a word and then continued her inspection of nothing.

Her expression was a little disconcerting. “Something wrong with Karin? Or did you have a quarrel?” he asked, vaguely pointing upwards.

Anni blinked, seemingly having to contemplate that. Then she shook her head. “No… I wasn’t upstairs yet.” She was _sort of_ absent.

Hesitating, Martin stood in the doorframe. He’d wanted to go upstairs, but… “Should I leave?”

Anni didn’t react to that. “What’s the worst thing that’s your fault?”

The question stung, and painfully so. _Theo. I’m sorry_.

But there was obviously something gnawing on Anni. Martin was a bit at a loss. Had it been Otto, he’d just sit down by his side and draw him to his shoulder, but what was he supposed to do about Anni? He didn’t feel well standing like that, towering up before her. Eventually, he sat down in the doorframe, opposite to her.

Anni fiddled with the bundle – what Martin had thought was a covering piece of fabric turned out to be clothes. “You got something new for Karin,” he noted. The attempt to resume conversation was a clumsy one, but still, that was a good thing – Karin was growing like a weed.

“Yes. They’re from remainders,” Anni said ruminatively. She untied the string that had held the bundle together, unfolding a long-sleeved blue dress, a bit big for Karin, but it was in good condition and would keep her warm. Suddenly, Anni added: “Of Wiesengrund.”

Martin couldn’t help wincing. _Remainders from children’s specialty departments_. Because the children there had no need for them anymore.

Some corner of his mind instantly started arguing against the queasy feeling in his stomach. They needed the clothes. What would it have been good for to toss them away or burn them? That explained Anni’s dull eyes, though. “I… I don’t think what’s happening there is your…” Martin tried, but– there was no fitting answer to that.

Anni interrupted him as if she hadn’t heard him. “Waltraud Bergmann is dead.”

A few seconds of silence followed. Martin wanted to be far away from Anni’s problems, wished it were none of his business. But it kind of was. “I don’t know who that is,” he said, and that he didn’t know made him feel a strange sort of guilty.

It took another moment before Anni explained: “Traudel. A mongoloid girl, fourteen years old. Her mother had brought her younger brother to the mothers consulting hours at the pediatric ward. She wanted Traudel to be referred to a children’s specialty department. And I signed a certification of the girl’s disability.” She hunched up her shoulders and lowered her head. “I didn’t even talk to her. She and I weren’t in the same room for longer than five minutes.”

Anni looked at the blue dress, a pretty thing with a white collar and embroidered hemlines. Martin wondered if she thought of the child it had belonged to – a toddler who had been cared for and possibly loved. A child like Karin. “I asked Artur about her. I mean, he’s doing his vaccine trials out there, in Wiesengrund. She wasn’t one of his probands; she was too old for the control group. Two weeks after Traudel was brought to Wiesengrund, she was dead. Pneumonia, says the report.” Her tone made clear that she didn’t believe it.

Martin didn’t think he was in any position to absolve her. “You couldn’t have protected her,” was all he said. It was true.

“That makes it better now?” Anni asked bitterly. “Because someone would have sent her there anyway? It wasn’t someone. It was me.” She leaned her head back against the wall and looked toward the attic. “Otto’s taking care of an ill, disabled child up there. _My_ child. Do you think he would have ever signed such a document?”

Martin knew the answer as clear and certain as his own name. _Never_. Otto would have rather risked his chance of an approbation, the walk to the next camp even.

Anni’s next words hit him uncomfortably. “Would you?”

Martin faltered. He _wanted_ to say the same about himself as about Otto, with the same certainty, but… could he? He’d never been in that situation. He was no _doctor_. He hadn’t had it hammered home that this was how things were supposed to be – because he’d never been how he was supposed to be. The rules had never sat quite right with him. _If it had been up to me to make the decision, would I have done the right thing? Would I have even_ known _the right thing?_

Anni’s gaze returned to him. She looked as though she only just recognized him. Belatedly, Martin realized that she’d been talking _at_ him, not _to_ him – he knew that from the patients on the ward. Sometimes, they just needed to speak. Now, Anni stood up and handed Martin the little bundle of clothes. Cushioned between them was a small glass vial, Karin’s antipyretic. “Can you bring that upstairs, please? I can’t talk to Otto right now.”

She left Martin with the sour feeling to have been spectacularly useless once again. What did he know of those children? _It’s easier not to ask_.

He lost the line of thought when he reached the attic, that and the hope to get some sleep, because Otto was in dire need of a break. Martin found him sitting on the floor, leaning to the bed’s edge, pale and with deep circles underlining his eyes – no wonder with Karin being as whiny as she hadn’t been since her last teething. Otto greeted him with a faint smile while Karin coughed into his shoulder.

“Not better yet?” Martin asked and got a headshake in reply. “Anni gave me this, for the fever.”

Otto’s face brightened up a little as Martin gave him the medicine. “Perhaps she can finally sleep for a bit when she’s not aching so badly anymore… can you get me a spoon?”

Martin got one, sat down and watched with a frown Otto feeding his niece the medicine. He’d sounded so croaky. He was wearing his corduroy coat, and despite the fire in the brazier that Anni had brought here a few weeks ago, he was shivering. His eyes were reddened, albeit not as much as Karin’s, and Martin had thought it was due to fatigue, but…

He set a hand on Otto’s forehead. Otto, in the middle of wiping Karin’s mouth, looked up, a bit puzzled. Martin sighed. _Of course_. “Otto, you’re burning up.”

A less-than-surprised glance followed, and then a shrug. “Oh, well…”

Martin reached for the edge of the bed and hauled himself to his feet. “Go to bed, please. I’ll go get Anni.”

* * *

Luckily, Anni was level-headed enough to put her guilty conscience up for later when Martin caught up with her and brought her up to date, instantly switching gears to doctor mode. When they got back upstairs, Anni with her doctor’s bag by now, Otto was a pretty sad sight to behold, curled up beneath the blanket and shaking, Karin by his side who didn’t look any better.

“Damn, Otto.” Anni stooped over the bed, one hand on Karin’s arm and the other caressing her brother’s hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think of that. The stuff won’t help your fever; we only got medicine for children.”

Otto grinned. “On a pediatric ward? That’s odd,” he quipped with a raspy voice, only to have a sudden coughing fit.

Anni nudged him to his back and set on the bedside to look into his mouth. “Your throat is sore. Can you swallow?”

“Barely,” Otto muttered. “Got a worse inflammation than Karin.”

“When did you eat last?” Martin demanded.

A moment of awkward silence ensued. “I haven’t today,” Otto admitted eventually.

Anni passed him a glare worthy of a Sauerbruch, asking sharply: “ _Why_ not?”

Otto shrugged yet again. Martin had a mind to grab him and shake some sense into him. “Because Karin didn’t eat.”

Martin and Anni both let out a deep sigh.

Then Anni growled: “I’ll go get water,” and marched off.

Martin did what he knew best – nursing. He got washing things and towels, dabbed a wet cloth at Karin’s eyes, treated her sore nose with balm, prepared tea for Otto and onion juice for both, made leg compresses once Anni came back with the water, and put a book under Karin’s mattress as he changed her bedding so her head would be elevated a bit. After a moment’s consideration, he threw Karin’s beloved stuffed bear to the laundry.

“Karin’s not going to like that,” Otto remarked.

“That thing’s full of snot,” Martin replied, point-blank. “You know that every bacterial secondary infection puts her at risk.”

Otto shrugged and coughed into his pillow. “Just saying.”

“You mind your own nose,” Anni said and gave him a cup of tea.

Otto sat up and drank, making the same face at the taste of fennel tea his niece had. “I’ll just sweat it out,” he murmured.

Anni, adding their last bit of honey to the onion juice, looked up incredulously. Martin could see her fighting the urge to yell at Otto that he should stop taking everything so lightly that was about himself. In the end, she just shook her head. “My professor always said that doctors make for awful patients.”

“De Crinis is a damisches Bockfotzng’sicht,” Otto stated, perfectly deadpan.

“Net de Crinis; i moain…” She interrupted herself to look quizzically at Martin who was laughing his head off.

He couldn’t help it – Bavarian still sounded hilarious to him, even after having heard it several times, and because Otto was Otto, he hadn’t been offended but instead made a right sport of it. Martin had responded with a few beauties from his Berliner mother’s and his Saxonian father’s vocabulary, and so they’d spent one entire cheerful afternoon insulting each other in three different dialects.

Of course, Anni didn’t know that. “What’s so funny?”

“The dialect,” Otto informed her – and went right on. “I hab ihm noch g’soagt, er is it besser, wenn er soan fesches Berlinerisch oanfängt.” Martin desperately tried to stifle his laughter, although the grin on Otto’s pale face indicated that he’d intended just that.

Anni rolled her eyes. “Saupreiß,” she snapped, and Martin laughed even more.

* * *

Two hours later, he didn’t laugh anymore.

Martin had attempted the leg compresses, but Otto’s fever kept rising. He wasn’t responsive anymore, and they hadn’t gotten him to eat with the state of his throat. Karin had answered Anni’s new attempt to get her to inhale with a tantrum, hurling the bowl with the steaming chamomile-and-salt water to the ground. The noise had made Otto wince and hide deeper in his bed, whimpering quietly, and Anni was at the end of her wits. Karin was usually a very sweet kid – Anni hadn’t yet had to deal with her being that petulant.

At the moment, Karin was asleep, her tiny, croaking breaths sounding faintly from her bed. And just when Martin considered asking Anni to keep watch for a few hours so he could take a nap and have some strength back in the evening, Otto started getting delirious.

Martin and Anni were at his bed in an instant. “Otto!” Martin tried to get him to look at him, but Otto stared just through him with glassy eyes. He spoke his home dialect again, but there was nothing remotely funny about it now, him stammering and calling for his mother.

“Otto–”

He got interrupted by Anni who just flung a wet rag over Otto’s face. Martin saw the grim glow in her eyes, somewhere between fierce resolve and complete paralysis, incapable of bearing more guilt, incapable of doing anything. It made her look a lot like her brother.

Otto was quiet now, although he was shaking. Martin wiped sweat from his face and neck, Anni took his temperature.

“41 degrees,” she said. When she caught Martin’s glance, she shook her head. “I didn’t think it would hit him so hard. He’s so strong.”

Martin scoffed. “On an empty stomach?”

Anni rubbed her neck. “We could use a chicken soup. Would warm him up, is easy to swallow, and would soothe his throat,” she mused.

Martin looked at his watch. 4 p.m. The sun was almost down, but the stores would be open for another few hours.

“Alright.” He grabbed Otto’s bag and his jacket. “I’ll hurry, but don’t panic if it takes a while. Novalgin is always out in the city center; I might have to go further out. Try to cool him off somehow; I’ll bring something to eat.”

Anni wrapped her cardigan tightly around herself. “Ration stamps or not, you won’t get any meat in the city,” she pointed out.

Martin shrugged. He’d just have to ask around.

* * *

“The brass has a decent amount of copper in it,” he insisted later towards his bargainer.

The latter was unimpressed. “What good is that if I can’t process it? It’s got the swastika on it; a few months from now, it’ll be worthless.”

Martin felt like punching him in the face.

But his obvious anger didn’t intimidate the other man. “If that’s all, I can’t help you.” With that, he turned away.

“Wait.” Martin shoved the Wound Badge back into his pocket and got out the coat instead. In the streetlamp’s light, he saw interest flickering up in the eyes of his trading partner.

Of course, he still tried to get a good deal. “The color won’t be very popular soon. And until then, it’s dangerous for me to have one of those. And of a medical officer, too; really now,” he added with a tinge of real outrage.

Martin shrugged. “Dye it. Cut off the insignia. The fabric is solid, the seams immaculate.”

After a short inspection, the man nodded. “Alright.”

Another hour later, Martin rushed out of a pharmacy in Lichtenberg and into one of the last trams to the suburban area. It was freezing cold, but Martin had at least achieved a small victory. There hadn’t been Novalgin, but he’d gotten hold of ridiculously overpriced Aspirin – the war would not be the ruin of the drug companies. He’d bought a package of elderberry flower tea as well – perhaps Karin would like that better than fennel, and she was horrendously dehydrated, anyway.

He’d gotten vegetables, too, but a vegetable broth in and of itself wasn’t much of a meal. And sure enough, Anni had been right; there was no scrap of meat anywhere in the damn city.

Which possibly explained why Martin sneaked through outermost Mahlsdorf in the upcoming night now and planned to steal a chicken from a suburban smallholder.

It was a foolish idea, and as Martin slinked along the fences he mentally counted through the ways his current undertakings were illegal.

But Otto and Anni had spent the summers of their youth helping out on the farms near their home, and Martin held onto the hope that he remembered a detail correctly that had cropped up in a throwaway sentence of Otto’s: That it was easy to kill a chicken once they were stunned with a blow to their head. Martin had picked up a brick fragment the size of his fist and now searched the front yards that were big enough for a poultry enclosure.

Indeed, it didn’t take long to find someone who kept chickens out here – it was probably comfortable to cover one’s own need of meat and eggs during the war.

While he eyed the fence and contemplated how to keep the flock from bringing themselves into safety in their hutch, how long he’d have to chase such a damn bird before he caught it and how loud it would get when it was upset, his plans were already rendered moot. A huge feathered thing squished itself through the opening of the hutch, definitely not a chicken, and looked around warily.

Otto had told him that some farmers kept geese instead of a guard dog because they were less demanding and at least as reliable. “Those beasts are loud, alert to everything strange, and really nasty when they feel threatened,” he’d said.

This particular goose seemed to be a perfect specimen. It waddled to the fence, looked at Martin for a few seconds with its small, bright eyes – and then it fluffed up its feathers, flapped its wings and hissed like an angry cat.

Martin retreated, adding a scratch on his pride to everything that was awful about this evening. _Martin Schelling, stared down by a goose_. He could save that line for his tombstone engraving.

The next yards offered a pigeonry, two scrawny goats searching a dead meadow, and an empty pen, but then he found it: A dozen chickens huddled together behind a wire-mesh fence, idly scraping on the frosty ground.

Martin glimpsed at the house behind the yard. The windows were dark; either the people there went to bed early, or they were not at home. And there was no goose around. On with it.

The climb was a torment, the thin wires cutting into his hands even through the gloves, and Martin couldn’t rely on his leg much and just pulled himself up and dropped down gracelessly on the other side, landing hard on his feet. With a gasp, he reached for his right hip, stiff from the cold. His bones would remember this evening for days on end.

 _If I come back to the hospital to find Otto has died meanwhile, I’ll kill him_ , he decided morosely, but the spite didn’t help out the dread of such a thought. Had they really thought Otto and Karin would get through the winter smoothly? During a war, in a damn _attic_?

 _Focus_. He was in the chicken pen, right next to the door of the hutch – which would probably scare the beasts off of running there. Martin took a breath and then another one. It had been years since he’d taken a life. Sure, killing a chicken wasn’t the same thing as killing a soldier, but still… _Enough, Schelling. This is livestock. Not people_.

One of the chickens was limping – one leg was malformed, the joint obviously incapable of bearing the full weight.

Martin sidled alongside the hutch’s wall, clutching the brick. When he’d almost reached the flock, a few of the birds looked up. A hen clucked, rustling her feathers, and then scurried off nervously, the rest following. The limping chicken tried to get away, too, but Martin was quick enough to seize its wing.

The chicken shrieked at him indignantly and loudly enough to make Martin wince, thrashing wildly to try and get loose. If it wasn’t quiet soon, someone would come to check on things; so Martin had to be quick now. He tucked the poor, floundering beast under his arm and hit the stone on its head. It fell silent instantly.

The dim light of the streetlamp that reached him back here displayed the little thing’s glassy eyes, and it felt weirdly rigid. Disgusted, Martin wondered if he’d slain the poor beast right away. He dropped the brick. The house was still quiet, and the other chickens eyed him from several meters distance with only some soft clucking.

Martin looked down at his prey. Kind of bitter that he’d picked out a cripple.

He noticed the faint pulse fluttering against his hand. _Dammit_.

For some reason, he had to think of Anni and the Wiesengrund children. Who had said that it was easy to kill someone who was weak?

Another deep breath, and he gripped around the hen’s throat. _Pulling a trigger on a gun is easier_ , he thought before swiftly twisting the bird’s neck. It took more strength than he had expected, but it did work, and the spine made a nauseating, muted, cracking sound as it broke. At least that meant the stupid beast didn’t twitch anymore. But Martin was sickened with himself when he shoved the poultry into his bag and closed the buckle above it. He’d always been a better orderly than a soldier.

All that was left to do was get the hell out of there.

* * *

When he reached Charité, it was well past nine o’clock. Nurses Anna and Charlotte on the late shift looked at him bewilderedly upon his entering the building, dirty and limping worse than usual, but something about his expression kept them from asking.

Up in the attic, he dumped the contents of his bag before Anni, feeling less than triumphant. She raised an eyebrow and nudged the chicken with her foot. “Where’d you get that?”

“Stole it,” Martin said brusquely; he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself. “And you, where’d you get these?” he asked with a glance at the brazier which held, instead of the usual wood rubble and branches, two charcoal briquets which weren’t fuming nearly as bad. A bit aside was lying a bag Martin hadn’t noticed earlier; Anni had to have brought it here. It was full to the brim with more charcoal.

“Stole them,” Anni said, unblinking. “There have been coal deliveries since late September, and I took one or two each time they brought a load to the hospital.” She knelt on the floor to eye the yield of Martin’s excursion and tossed the vegetables into a bucket of clear water – apparently, she’d been getting a lot more meanwhile.

Martin was grateful for her sobriety. “Good. How are the patients?”

“Karin’s respiration got a bit better. Otto was talking nonsense for a while, but he’s asleep now. Still at 40,5 though.”

Martin took off his gloves and grabbed the Aspirin vial, but his fingers felt like frozen and didn’t cooperate with the screw cap.

Upon his quiet cussing, Anni took the stuff from him. “Give me, I’ll take care of that. Go wash your hands.” It didn’t sound unfriendly.

Martin did as he was told. They were running short on soap; he’d probably have to get more before the end of Karin’s and Otto’s flu.

And then he sat before the stupid dead hen with no idea what to do with it. Anni had gotten him an empty bucket and a chopping board; so he assumed he had to behead the beast, which made sense. But didn’t it have to be plucked first?

Anni had begun peeling carrots, but she noticed his hesitation. “Have you done that before?”

Martin shook his head, vaguely ashamed of having never really been outside the city. There had been the Balkans years, but food had consisted mostly of preserves then.

Without a word, Anni shoved the vegetables and peeling knife to him and took the poultry instead.

She went to get a kit from her bag – a set of instruments, as Martin found, out of which she took a scalpel, set it at the point where Martin had broken the chicken’s spine, and cleanly cut through the neck, quickly dropping the cutting board and the head to put the body over the bucket. A few seconds later, she eyed the result skeptically. Then she sighed. “You should have bled it out right then and there. Now it’s half-frozen. Cleaning it will be a mess.”

“What do I know. I don’t usually slaughter poultry.” He realized how cranky he sounded, but, damn, he was tired and cold and everything hurt, Otto was sick, Karin was sick, and he had killed a chicken. And hadn’t even done it right.

Anni’s smile surprised him – it was thin and tired, but it was most definitely a smile. “Make notes for the next time.”

“ _You_ can go steal the next chicken,” Martin grumbled, and Anni’s grin broadened.

Then, Martin witnessed with a certain morbid fascination how Anni went to work like she’d processed dead birds for all her life. Perhaps it was like riding a bike; one didn’t just unlearn it.

She heated another bucket of water to briefly soak the chicken before she plucked it, scorched off the feather residues and repeatedly washed the poultry because of the cloggy blood trickling out every once in a while. With the scalpel, a lot of hot water and a remarkably cold-blooded attitude for someone who usually didn’t work as a surgeon, she somehow managed to take the bird apart and bleed out the pieces.

Long before she was done, Martin had worked his way through the vegetables and went to look after Karin and Otto.

Karin was awake, but she looked pretty apathetic. Since her fever wasn’t extremely high anymore, Martin could just assume that she was hungry, but after the grouchy, whining toddler of the past days, seeing her that lethargic was not a comfort. When Martin wiped her face clean, she started patting his hand though and cooed softly, and she drank the elderberry flower tea without protest.

Otto slept a bit more peaceful by now. All the more a shame to wake him up, but Martin really had to change the sweat-drenched bedding. At least Otto seemed to understand the explanation, although he didn’t answer and still whimpered with pain when he climbed out of the bed. Martin hurried with the bedding and with helping Otto dress in clean clothes. The familiar motions were kind of reassuring.

Eventually, Otto croaked: “Why does it smell like a slaughterhouse?”

“Your sister dissected a chicken,” Martin told him wryly while buttoning up Otto’s shirt and dragging his arm across his shoulder to pull him up.

Otto followed his movement, but he hesitated to get back into bed. “I need to… you know…” He scowled at the floor.

Anni stooped over her cooking pot, suddenly enormously interested in the soup. Martin could see the flush creeping up her neck.

He huffed in exasperation. _Just everyday work_. “Come on.” With that, he grabbed a bucket with his free hand and helped Otto over to a corner of the attic that was a bit shielded from sight, but he didn’t want to risk leaving him on his own. It was impressive how, for however sick and weary Otto was, he could still glower like nobody’s business; so Martin looked elsewhere while he took care of matters.

“That’s really the worst,” Otto snarled when his clothes were back in order.

Martin shrugged and brought him back to his living area. “Can imagine worse.” Which was true. Strictly speaking. He was rather well acquainted with Otto’s body after all, and he took care of patients on the ward all the time. Both at the same time was still sort of weird; so he didn’t resent Otto for hiding under several layers of blankets back in his bed and pressing his face down on the pillow.

Anni poked at her chicken soup, looking like she had a bad toothache. Martin supposed this was the face of someone who really, _really_ didn’t want to imagine another man’s hands near her brother’s genitals but at the same time was extremely glad that she hadn’t had to bring said brother to the privy herself.

Karin made for a distraction by wailing a bit, but it seemed she just wanted out of her bed; once Anni sat her down on the floor, she was happy to just chew a bit on the blanket she’d been given as an underlay.

Martin watched, quietly amused, how Karin made her way across the floor, taking the blanket along. She sometimes practiced standing, but she’d never been big on crawling – she skidded around sitting instead which had, to Otto’s and Anni’s grief, ruined plenty diapers and pantyhoses.

“Is your leg hurting?” Otto asked suddenly. His fever was apparently too strong for him to focus on his sulk for an extended time, but it didn’t keep him from worrying about other people than himself. “You’re limping horribly.”

Martin rolled his eyes and stroked Otto’s hair. “Just go back to sleep.”

Otto hummed and obeyed almost instantly.

* * *

“Martin.” A hand shook his shoulder, and Martin jolted up, finding himself curled up beside a warm body. His leg was still aching, and he felt even more depleted than earlier. Apparently, he’d fallen asleep next to Otto, and now Anni woke him up. “Food is ready,” was all she said.

Confused, Martin looked around. A few hours seemed to have passed; Anni had cleaned up the entire mess in the attic. The laundry waited next to the door, besides the several buckets with stuff to dispose of, all of them covered with lids. Any unappetizing remains had been removed from the living area, together with most of the slaughter smell. If Anni had aired the room, it wasn’t noticeable now; the fire in the brazier burned steadily and kept the place warm.

Martin gave up. He just couldn’t reconcile the image of Dr. Waldhausen’s haughty, pampered wifey with Anni anymore, his tireless ally. When it came to Otto and Karin, there seemed to be nothing that was too much for her.

Now, she came from the cooker with a bowl of soup, supplemented with plenty pearl barley, and woke Otto.

Otto insisted that he could eat by his own strength, so all Martin did was set a glass of water aside for his next Aspirin pill. Otto smiled at him for that; he seemed to be past the critical bit.

“What’s Karin up to?” he wanted to know between two spoonful of soup.

Anni who was just pouring tea for everyone pointed at the shelf where Karin had decided to inspect the undermost piece of clothing from each stack. She was half buried in laundry by now.

Martin smirked and went to pick her up. “Come here, _Mausi_.” He sat down next to the bed, Karin on his lap – then the thought cropped up that perhaps Anni wanted to hold the girl herself. But Anni just handed Martin a cup with skimmed broth.

Karin sniffed warily when Martin set it to her mouth, but she started drinking – and then gripped for the cup and tried to tear it from Martin’s hands. Anni laughed brightly, Otto coughingly.

Otto just fell asleep again after swallowing his medicine. Karin meanwhile tried to climb up Martin, her interest in his glasses rekindled, until Anni took her and gave Martin a bowl of soup instead. “You won’t be helping anyone if you’re the next to get sick.”

Martin doubted it; after all, it could have only been Anni or himself who’d brought the influenza up here in the first place, and neither of them had symptoms, but he hadn’t been eating since lunch, and the soup smelled nice. So he started tucking away his serving, Anni ate hers like a starving woman, and for a while, it was quiet, as it usually was between the two of them.

Then, Anni broke the silence with a question. “Why didn’t you become a doctor?”

Martin looked up in surprise. “Hm?” For a second, he thought that Anni was thinking loudly again, but this time, her gaze was focused on him.

“You have what it takes. And you knew that bacterial secondary infections are a complication for children with neurological conditions – you seem to enjoy learning. Why didn’t you study?”

Martin cleared his throat, shrugging awkwardly. It was not like he’d never considered it when he’d been younger, but… “My parents couldn’t afford it. And, frankly, I don’t think they cared much for it. They didn’t think it was of much use.”

Anni frowned, glimpsed at Karin, and then returned to eating in silence.

For the first time in a long while, Martin wondered if he would have liked to become a doctor – if he would have liked to be a doctor these past years. For everything he’d been through, he’d been spared one thing that obviously troubled Anni each time she looked at her daughter: The feeling of responsibility.

Eventually, Anni stood up, set the dishes aside to get cleaned later, and put Karin to bed, not without giving her a kiss and checking her temperature again, but she seemed relieved upon that. “I have to go,” she said to Martin, “and think of something to tell Artur. That I was with friends until late or some such.”

“That sounds like you’re stepping out,” Martin blurted out, too tired to really mind his words.

“Oh yes, with my neighbor, the womanizer,” Anni retorted. “Don’t think I need to bother with an excuse. Artur knows I’m hiding Karin.” She yawned mightily, reminded Martin sternly that he should get her if Otto got worse again, and then left.

Martin could finally untie the cursed prosthesis, dim the light and crawl into bed to Otto. The motion woke Otto up; he muttered drowsily: “What time is it?”

“Something past midnight,” Martin said and pulled Otto close. He was still too warm, but he wasn’t burning up anymore as he’d been in the afternoon.

Otto took Martin’s hand in his. “Happy Christmas, my dear.”

Martin, who’d just shut his eyes, opened them again.

That couldn’t be right.

A brief calculation led him to the conclusion that it _was_ right. He’d been halfway aware that the day that had just begun was a Sunday, but he hadn’t thought of Christmas. It had been out of the question to shut down the ward during the holidays, with their workload… He didn’t even know if the staff would meet for a celebration in the auditorium.

Well. Very festive.

Then again, a year ago Otto had told him that he loved him, and now he was here by his side, and he’d get better soon.

Martin kissed Otto’s temple. “Happy Christmas, _mein Liebling_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think it needs to be said, but FOR F***S SAKE, don't EVER slaughter poultry the way Martin did. It's illegal, barbaric, and seriously unsanitary. 
> 
> On that note, I dub this chapter "Martin is a city kid - fortunately, Anni is not". Or "The limits of domesticity".  
> Now, I know that "taking care of a sick beloved" is kind of an old cliché, but I thought about the attic situation for a while and the fact that temperatures were frigging 10 degrees below freezing (Celsius by the way, not Fahrenheit) and I found it pretty damn unlikely that they got through the winter without ever getting sick. Also, nursing is neither pretty nor clean work. Nurses are damn heroes. 
> 
> There are other takes on Anni in the fandom regarding her attitude toward Martin, and some might say that I make it too easy for myself. But here's the thing: Anni is not a monster, and she had to learn a lot. And if there's one thing she can appreciate, it's someone taking care of her loved ones.  
> I really enjoyed writing Anni and Martin working together because I friend-ship them, but I don't like Otto having to be damseled like that. Kid needs something to do. 
> 
> The idea of Martin and Otto having fun with dialects is an old one for me, but I was reminded of it thanks to a tumblr post. The discussion to the very same post also made me salty, because Saxonians are NOT the worst Germans in terms of talking intelligibly just by virtue of being Saxonians! Even when I first came to Berlin four years ago, nobody ever said they couldn't understand me.  
> My attempt at Bavarian is vaguely translatable to English like this:  
>  _"De Crinis is a dumbass with a slapworthy face."_  
>  _"Not de Crinis; I mean..."_  
>  _"I already told him, he's no better when he starts off with his fancy Berlin dialect."_  
>  _"Damn Prussian!"_ (only vaguely; while it stems from the word for "Prussian", it means more generally all people who don't speak or understand Bavarian)


	19. When they take Old Berlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Friday the 13th!

Martin leaned to the house wall and desperately wished for a cigarette. Of course, he didn’t have any; he’d brought them all to the black market a day ago and gotten some butter, oatmeal and dubious liver sausage for it. His last cigarette had been a couple days back, and he was tired.

Then the surgery at which he’d just assisted had been hard on the stomach. An enucleated eye wasn’t pretty to look at. The junior doctor who served as a substitute for Otto since autumn, Herr Ruppert, had run out of the OR in the middle of the procedure to throw up noisily in the anteroom, prompting Sauerbruch to give him hell afterwards.

“Is there someone in your year who _isn’t_ a wimp? Should think you would have seen a few body parts during studies!”

“But I’m an internist,” Ruppert had protested weakly, not appeasing the boss in the slightest.

Martin glimpsed at his watch. Past 5 p.m.; he was in with two hours overtime again. But there was no end to it. There were bandages to change, blood glucoses and infusion bottles to check on, analgesics to distribute…

“Excuse me?” someone said gingerly.

Martin looked up. A young woman stood before him, appearing uneasy although she seemed to belong to the hospital staff herself – the lamplight showed that she was wearing a doctor’s coat beneath her jacket, and Martin found her vaguely familiar. He supposed she was a working student.

“I think there’s an Erich Kunzmann on your ward, back from the Ardennes…” As he nodded, she bit her lip. “May I visit him? I want to know how he is.”

“He’s been out of the OR twenty minutes ago,” Martin informed her. “And you are?”

“Dorothee Kunzmann. I’m his wife.” Well, that explained the anxious expression.

Martin rubbed his forehead. It was late, too late in fact, but he sympathized with the woman. “Your husband hasn’t woken up from anesthesia yet,” he argued.

Frau Kunzmann began to plead. “I want to be with him when he wakes up.”

Martin made his decision. “Come along.” He had her follow him inside – it had to be allowed that people looked after their family after a severe intervention…

Of course, in the time it’d taken him to think that and head to the recovery room, Christel had already targeted him. Her gaze found Frau Kunzmann and her eyes narrowed. Then she stepped into his way. “Who’s that?” she demanded.

“Our eye patient’s wife,” Martin explained wearily. _I’m really not in the mood for that_. “She wants to see him.”

Christel inflated like a bullfrog. “Visiting hours are over, and the ward is a mess. The head nurse will have your skin.”

“Sure she will,” Martin agreed wryly and beckoned an intimidated-looking Frau Kunzmann to follow him.

Christel stood before him and glowered. “So, you’re once again too good to adhere to rules and policies?” she snapped.

Martin felt his temples starting to throb. It wasn’t about rules and it wasn’t about Frau Kunzmann. No, it was about _him_ and his deviations, _again_. “Now, listen to me, you self-important…”

Before he could add a word that would have prompted his mother to rinse his mouth with soapy water, Dr. Sauerbruch joined them. “What’s the matter?”

Christel opened her mouth, but Martin was quicker. “Frau Kunzmann wants to visit her husband.” He got another scowl for that.

But Dr. Sauerbruch who’d assisted during Kunzmann’s surgery didn’t ponder it for more than two seconds. “Of course.” She smiled briefly at Frau Kunzmann before issuing instructions. “Then, Martin, you’ll go check on Herrn Rudloff to see if the necrosis is coming up again. Fräulein Böhnisch, you take care of Frau Graupner. The boss wants the diaphragmatic hernia on his table before midnight.”

It took a moment for Christel to leave – or rather, stalk off. Martin didn’t even have enough energy left to gloat at her.

As he wanted to go to Herrn Rudloff, Dr. Sauerbruch set a stern gaze on him before she left with Frau Kunzmann. It didn’t have quite the effect it was supposed to have because her make-up couldn’t hide the dark circles underlining her eyes. She looked nothing but exhausted. “I know she keeps doing that, but do you have to respond to it, too?”

Martin took the scolding with an appropriate bout of shame. He really was too old for that sort of squabbling. “I’m sorry, Doctor.” Returning to work, he wondered how long this would go on. It was out of the question for him to apply for a transfer; he was at home here. But Christel, in spite of her confrontations with him and the distaste of the Sauerbruchs for her, seemed to be simply too pigheaded to get transferred herself.

“Martin, help me with the ramp, please!” the head nurse called him over, adding promisingly: “If you’re done completing the anamneses of this morning, you can go afterwards.”

Obediently, Martin helped her to steer a stretcher with a covered body out of the house. Once out and down, he overtook shoving while Head Nurse Elisabeth walked in front, one arm holding a file, the other hand on the stretcher to help navigating.

“Who’s that?” Martin asked with a glance at the corpse.

“Wilke, _exitus_ at quarter past 5,” the head nurse said with a yawn. It wasn’t out of disrespect or disinterest – she was just tired. They all were. “The lead poisoning was too much for him.”

Wilke had been one of their veterans. Martin didn’t know anything to say.

When they left the pathological institute, it was snowing again. Martin contemplated the nightly sky, reflecting the reddish light the city shone at it. Winter hadn’t been merciful so far, but at least Otto and Karin were back to health for now…

“Martin?” Head Nurse Elisabeth held out a cigarette case.

 _Oh God, yes please. Just one, only that one, only once_ … It was unnerving to find how strong his desire for a cheap cigarette consisting of laced tobacco was. _No way. That’s just putting up the problem_. Cigarettes were there to get food for Karin and Otto, not for his comfort. Martin shook his head, managing a pinched smile. “I’m trying to give it up.”

“Smart boy,” the head nurse lauded and lit one for herself. Unfortunately – no, _fortunately_ , dammit! – she was careful not to blow the smoke into his direction while they strolled back to the surgical ward.

“So, when Frau Graupner is out of the OR, it’s end of the work for you, too?” Martin asked her.

He got a shrug on that. “Have two daughters waiting at home and a husband who’s mostly out of it since he came back from Lorraine,” she grumbled. “End of the work might not be the right term.” She exhaled a puff of smoke; Martin added a cloud of breath condensing in the icy air. “De Crinis said, my oldie is suffering from a war neurosis,” she told him, scoffing. “Said something about a shock treatment. Told him he’s wasting his breath. I’ll take care of my Peter myself, no matter how much of a whiner he is.”

Martin couldn’t help but grin. The daily aches and pains of a loved one… but that wasn’t fair towards Otto. He’d calmed down a lot, and in the beginning Martin had thought it was because of the severe flu wearing him down until the second week of January, but now it seemed Otto had settled somewhat in his situation. His occasional irritability had mostly ceased and it had been a while since he’d needed comfort after a nightmare.

Back in the house, the head nurse wished him a good night and Martin trudged upstairs. For a moment, he entertained the idea of sleeping in the workshop for a change, just so he didn’t have to adapt to Otto’s sleeping hours. It wasn’t really an option – Otto would worry about him, and it was nonsense anyway since Otto wasn’t loud, and Karin slept through the night meanwhile. But, dammit, he had a headache. And he really, really wanted a smoke.

* * *

Otto was waiting for him with warm cabbage stew and a bright smile because Karin, holding onto his hands, was determinedly setting one foot after another. She made eleven steps, from Otto’s bed almost to hers, before she faltered in making the twelfth, took a confused look at her legs and then apparently found the coordination too bewildering because she just sat down right there.

Martin ate, Otto fed Karin and then brushed her few tiny teeth while he listened to the daily stories of the ward.

He startled up when he heard the name Kunzmann, though. “ _Erich_ Kunzmann? He lost an eye?” Upon Martin’s nod, the dismay on his face deepened. “Does Dorothee know already?”

Martin finally realized why the wife had seemed so familiar. He hadn’t paid much attention to it with their patient – no wonder with the man’s face covered in bandages – but they had to be Otto’s fellow students. “She’s with him now.”

Otto was quiet for a second. Then he said suddenly: “I want to see him.”

Martin’s head jolted up, and Otto immediately appeased him. “I mean I’d _like_ to. Of course I won’t… I’m just worried, alright?” He wiped Karin’s mouth and perched her up on his hip to bring her to bed, but Martin saw the frustration on his face before he turned away.

“No need,” he assured while doing the dishes. “You know Sauerbruch – that’s no big deal for him. Kunzmann is stabilized, and he’ll get better soon.” It was meant to sound encouraging.

But Otto hunched up his shoulders and didn’t answer. He stooped over the kid’s bed to kiss Karin’s forehead. “Sweet dreams, _Mausi_.” Instead of taking some food for himself afterwards, he sat down on the floor, leaning against his bed and opening one of his books. Several notes on the draft of his thesis were stuffed between the pages. Martin wondered if he’d get done with it before the war ended.

“How’s the Eastern front?” he asked with a glance at the radio.

“The evacuation in Breslau isn’t going well,” Otto said with a frown. “Most are just running out head over heels. In that weather, for heaven’s sake…”

Speaking of the weather. “Any idea when you’ll need more firewood?”

“Early next week, I think. But we have a bit of charcoal from Anni yet; it’s not urgent.” Otto sighed. “They started bombing Posen. I think the Soviets will be here sooner than the Amis and Tommies. They’re taking too long in the west.”

Unfortunately, he was probably right with that. The German forces had turned out to be more resilient than Martin would have liked – the end of the war kept getting delayed.

He shouldn’t have mentioned Kunzmann; the worry about his friends had soured Otto’s mood. Martin sat next to him and put an arm around him which seemed to help a bit; Otto rested against his shoulder, but he still seemed unhappy. Martin kissed his temple in an attempt to mitigate his frown, and since he was there anyway, he started kissing his neck and slipped a hand under the hem of his shirt to caress Otto’s waist.

A corner of Otto’s mouth twitched, but he dodged the touch. “Not now,” he murmured.

Martin let go of him. “Well, but it’s kind of late for that,” he said with a glance at the book. “Don’t you think you’ll be able to focus better during the day?”

He got a shrug for that. “I’m not falling asleep easily these days.”

Now it was Martin who frowned.

Otto noticed and grinned at him. “No wonder; I’m always taking midday naps with Karin.”

He still put his book aside, helped Martin taking off his prosthesis, and crawled into bed with him. Martin wished he could have said something comforting to help out his dejection. But then Otto pressed to him beneath the blanket and pulled Martin close, and he just felt well. The fatigue tearing him down for hours demanded its price, and Otto’s warmth did the rest.

* * *

Only a few hours later, he woke up. He didn’t know right away why; everything was quiet. Drowsily, Martin reached next to himself. The bed was too cold, because Otto wasn’t there.

“Otto?” He couldn’t be far, Martin told himself to quell his stupid bout of panic; he’d probably gone to the toilet…

A dark figure near the panorama window moved. “Martin. I’m here.” He spoke in a very hushed voice so as not to disturb Karin.

Martin let his head drop back on the pillow. He couldn’t go into blind fear every time Otto was more than a couple meters away; he didn’t when he was down on the ward, anyway. _But he is_ always _up here; he shouldn’t be far off_ , a voice in the back of his mind niggled.

Most of all, he shouldn’t be up in the middle of the night, unless something had alarmed him. “What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

Otto turned his head a bit, the dim paraffin light shedding on a faint smile. “Nothing. Just brooding a bit.”

Martin sat up and wanted to grab his prosthesis so he could go to him.

“Don’t,” Otto protested. “You can stay– I’m right back.”

Something was off, but Martin couldn’t put his finger on it. He was too sleepy to really think about it, and when Otto came back to him, Martin couldn’t do much but wrap his arm around him. He did notice Otto’s heartbeat pounding against his hand, but before he could find that disconcerting, he’d dozed off again.

* * *

The next day was a bit more merciful; at least Martin could leave the ward before sunset. Since Anni had promised to bring food upstairs that day, he had a bit of time to prowl through the staff rooms on the upper floor to search them for commodities.

Someone had left a watch behind, the cover glass broken but otherwise intact; it was still valuable. He found a thread spool in one place and a pair of shoes in another and felt guilty for pocketing them; those were good, solid shoes that certainly hadn’t been left behind on purpose, but in his situation, morals only went so far.

As he made his way through the flats, some of which were half buried in debris, he thought of Otto. He’d been rather quiet last evening; usually, he would make his discontent known clearly. And then waking up in the middle of the night – Martin had yet to ask him what that had been about.

There was something else he couldn’t quite get to. He had an irksome feeling that the answer was right in front of him and he just had to reach out, but…

“Are you stealing nails, too?” a voice behind him asked.

Martin damn near had a heart attack. When he whirled over, Angelika grinned at him, amused with his jumpiness. “Calm down; there’s professional honor among thieves.” She held up the large cooking pot in her arm which contained a miraculously undamaged pitcher which itself contained something chinking.

“Nails?” Martin managed to ask.

“Yes; I know a guy who’s after all sorts of metal bits.” Angelika waved with pliers she held in her other hand, adding nonchalantly: “I disassembled your shelf, by the way.”

Martin looked in the direction she’d waved at – the part of the hallway that led to his old room. “The one that broke from the wall when the first bombs crashed in here?” Angelika nodded, and he shrugged it off. “Alright.” No loss for him – he and Otto had stolen a bunch of intact furniture in turn.

While he rummaged through the drawers of a sideboard, Angelika went to work getting the handles off of said drawers. “How are you doing?” she asked. “I’m wondering why they keep giving us food stamps when there’s no food.”

“Getting along,” Martin replied wryly. “Laura is a bit better off; her family’s sending food parcels for her and the boy.”

“Her nephew?” Angelika inquired. “Poor little wretch. Let’s see for how long she’ll still get her mail, anyway– can you hold this?”

Martin held the drawer, Angelika pulled at her pliers. At first, nothing moved one way or another, but then the whole thing came apart at once; Martin fell back against the sideboard, Angelika to the floor.

Then, Martin caught a movement, just out of the corner of his eye, and this time he could have sworn his heart stood still for a moment, because that was Otto, apparently slinking through the hallway and peering into the room. _What the–_

Luckily, Angelika was busy laughing. “What a performance, Frau Grüne,” she said to herself as she stood up and brushed dust off her skirt. “Got the nail, though. Martin, are you alright?”

His reaction was a bit late – what was _Otto_ doing here? Was he _insane_? But Martin remembered that staring at him reproachfully would definitely call Angelika’s attention to him. “I’m fine.” Hell, that had sounded unnatural.

Until Angelika had put away her yield and looked up, Otto had hurried away, quiet as a mouse. Martin still felt his heart up to his throat.

“Hey, Martin!” Angelika waved her hand before his face. “Where’d your mind wander just now?”

Martin looked at her. Otto had to climb back up, draw the ladder to the attic and shut the metal sheet door. “Did you– do you know a jeweler?” he blurted out, a bit desperate – he had to keep her talking somehow.

Angelika blinked. “A… jeweler? Did you find the Waldhausens’ family treasures or something?”

Martin showed her the watch, and while Angelika rattled off a few acquaintances who might or might not be interested, he had time enough to cool off his panic and harden it into a lump of rage. He would _kill_ Otto.

* * *

Angelika left shortly thereafter, and Martin kept waiting for a while until the sound of her steps had ceased and he was certain that there wasn’t another surprise coming upstairs. Eventually, he went to the attic and flung two pebbles against the door. Otto opened after a moment and set down the ladder. He looked surly, but he didn’t say anything. Martin also saved that for when he was upstairs, the ladder stowed again and the door locked from the inside.

Until then, Otto had hidden away in the living area, but Karin greeted him at the door. Martin took her hand and walked her back through the room, although Karin gave up halfway again and had herself be carried.

Otto was sitting on his bed, decidedly not looking at Martin. He stared down at the sheets, but his expression was that of someone who knew he’d done something stupid and was now, both guiltily and sullenly, waiting for a roasting.

Martin was not at all in the mood to berate him. Still, the first thing that came out of his mouth was: “Have you lost your mind?”

Otto sighed heavily, but he still didn’t look at him.

Martin sat Karin down on her blanket on the floor and handed her the stuffed bear. Karin hugged it with a squeal. She’d tossed it off indignantly when Martin had brought it back from the laundry after her flu, but meanwhile, she loved it again.

“What were you thinking?” Martin demanded.

Otto shrugged. “I didn’t think someone would be there, besides you and Anni. Nobody’s ever coming up here.”

That was _not an answer_. “What did you _want_ there? Was there a reason for you to go and risk bumping into the next _Volkssturm_ unit?”

Otto propped his elbows up on his knees and his forehead on the heels of his hands. For a second, his face was a strangely pained grimace that hurt Martin to look at, but before he could ask, Otto’s petulant tone was back. “I just wanted to get water. I’m not a prisoner – I was just walking a few meters.”

“Terrific, and in the meantime Karin finds out how to open the door, falls down the ladder and breaks her neck!” Martin snapped.

That hit below the belt, which he realized when he finished and Otto leapt to his feet. “Karin is too short to reach the handle, and I jammed the door so she wouldn’t hurt herself,” he snarled, turning away to tidy up dishes in the shelf that had been waiting there after the last clean-up. “I only wanted– dammit! You’re acting as if it’s a crime for me to leave the room.”

Martin took off his glasses to rub his eyes. _Here we go again_. Thing was, he understood Otto quite well; of course this situation was crap. But he still could hold onto some reason and caution, couldn’t he? “It’s not ideal for anyone that you’re stuck here playing housewife,” he admitted.

He hadn’t meant anything by it. Perhaps his phrasing had been dumb, but it was certainly nothing worthy of an outburst.

Nothing that explained why Otto’s back got rigid all of a sudden as he set down a few plates with infinite tranquility before turning over to focus his gaze on Martin. “I’m no one’s wife,” he said so calmly that it made Martin’s insides churn. Otto wasn’t the type to get calm when he was angry – he was the type to scream out his frustrations. Now, no muscle in his face was moving, his blue eyes cold as the winter.

“That’s not what I…” Martin began weakly, but Otto interrupted him.

“Do you think I’m having some nice vacation here? There’s not much to it, is there? I’m not doing _anything_. I’m not working, I’m not talking to anyone, I’m just sitting around looking after Karin and _waiting for you_!”

He got abruptly loud on the fast few words, and Martin was almost relieved that he did yell after all.

He wasn’t for long, though, because Otto had talked himself into a rage. “Do you think this is _fun_ for me? Waiting everyday for you or Anni to feed me, not talking to my friends, my mother has no idea about my whereabouts, I can’t do my work – I am completely _useless_! I haven’t left this house in months – God, I sometimes have to see something else than _this lousy attic_!”

Martin couldn’t even tell him that he needed to stop yelling. A sickening, acrid feeling stirred in his throat and cut off his air because he’d finally had his epiphany: Otto’s smile the other evening had been false. He’d smiled in that chiseled-in-stone way that he sometimes had about him.

For _anyone else_. Not for _him_. When had he ever feigned anything toward Martin? Otto wasn’t– he couldn’t– that was all so wrong…

 _The insomnia. He didn’t eat. The untypical quiet instead of the moodiness. He stopped complaining about nightmares_. How long had Otto been not well? How long had Martin not _noticed_? “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, thoroughly aghast. “I thought you’re getting better – why didn’t you _talk_ to me?”

“Why _should_ I?” Otto’s voice sounded unsteady. “You’re _not_ talking to me when you’re troubled – not even _Anni_ talks to me when she’s troubled! She’s in a bad place because of Artur and everything; I think she wants to get divorced, but she’s not talking – _you’re_ not talking – how stupid do you think I am? What, because you’re not saying anything, I won’t notice anything? I’m just that poor, inept moron sitting in the attic all day, doing _nothing_! I sure don’t notice when you’re waking up at night in panic or crying for your… I don’t even know! What was his name?”

Martin only became aware of how quiet Karin had gotten when she wasn’t anymore; she started crying.

He couldn’t react to it, staring at Otto who was leaning to the shelf, breathing heavily. Martin realized he was grinding his teeth. He was so used to Otto just not asking.

“Theo,” he spat. “His name was Theodor Berner, and yes, of course the memory of him is painful.”

Otto’s face had gotten red during his rant. Now it got very pale in a very short time.

Martin hardly noticed because now he was yelling. “What – did you _want_ to know that I wanted to end it when they took him away from me? When they took _you_ away? Did you want to know that I was so scared that I thought it would be easier to hang? That I’m scared everyday to leave you alone here? Of course I am when you’re behaving like an irresponsible _idiot_! I want you to be careful, goddammit!”

“And you’re alone with that, are you? What, do you think I was jumping with joy when you were arrested? Do you think I didn’t _know_ it was my fault? Do you think I don’t have any…” Otto’s voice cracked and he turned away hastily. “Goddamned shit,” he muttered, but Martin barely understood him since he was pressing a hand to his mouth.

Karin howled louder, ripping Otto from his stupor. He passed Martin to pick the kid up and comfort her. “Karin – I’m sorry, _Mausi_ , I’m sorry… shh, it’s alright…” He coughed, but it sounded like covering up a sob. Which it was, probably, with the way his shoulders twitched.

Martin turned away, trembling. God, he felt ill. What had he been thinking talking to Otto like that? _Why_ had he… he’d never wanted to tell Otto that he’d been intent on killing himself.

 _He shouldn’t have talked about Theo_.

The thought was cold and vitriolic and almost made Martin cry, too. Otto was a part of his life, the one person that actually mattered. Martin throwing a fit because Otto asked him about someone that had also once been important to him was such a sick, twisted reaction.

He wanted to apologize. He wanted to explain that he was _not_ suicidal, that he understood Otto, that none of this was easy and he knew that. He wanted to comfort him.

But Otto was crying, and Karin was crying, and everything was too much because _Martin hadn’t taken well enough care of him_ , and that _hurt_. He had to get out of here, now.

So he left.

* * *

Later, Martin wasn’t sure how he got through his Friday interrogation without losing his nerve and telling Leibfried in detail what he could do with his questions and suspicions when they were surrounded by opposing forces. He remembered managing just barely to crawl into the workshop, take off the prosthesis, drop onto the bed and fall asleep. He felt awful, he felt guilty, but he also felt weeks of overtime weighing him down.

The first thing that came to his mind when he woke up in the late Saturday morning was that he had to apologize to Otto and talk to him. Perhaps about his touchy reaction concerning Theo, but certainly about Otto thinking that he couldn’t tell Martin about his troubles.

The second thing he became aware of was the siren that had woken him up.

Martin cussed to himself as he fumbled for his wooden leg. It was half past ten; what a moronic time was that to drop bombs on anyone? Perhaps he could get upstairs unseen once the patients were safe in the bunker and the shelter…

Just when he’d rolled up his trouser far enough, the door was tossed open with a bang; he’d apparently forgotten to lock it the previous evening. Martin flinched so violently that his prosthesis slipped from his hand, and the next moment, Christel stood in the doorframe and griped: “Get a move on; we need everyone down on the ward.”

Her look met the stump which Martin hadn’t managed to cover in time, and she grimaced contemptuously.

If Martin had been able to stand up, he would have hit her this time. As it was, he only ground out between his teeth: “Get _out_!”

Christel was unimpressed with his glare, but she left. Martin was still seething with fury when he reached the courtyard to help evacuating the ward.

The only one completely undisturbed by the events was, of course, Sauerbruch. If he wanted to resect a part of a pancreas, then, by God, a part of a pancreas would be resected. When he came from the OR to the front room of the bunker, he called to the door: “No way, girl, you’re _not_ running out there now! Are you out of your mind?”

Anni looked like caught red-handed and tiptoed away from the bunker’s door which, after a last control of the courtyard, was locked up by the guards. Martin met Anni’s gaze; she had obviously hoped, just like he had, to get away to the attic.

Now she came over to him instead, wriggling past Herrn Ruppert and Dr. Sauerbruch who were coming from the OR, swerving out of Nurse Charlotte’s and Nurse Mathilde’s way when they came with the newly stitched-up patient, and began helping him cleanse the instruments, apparently out of sheer helplessness.

“Why aren’t you over at the pediatric ward?” Martin asked.

“I brought the kid here, Margaretha Clemens, follow-up examination after a broken wrist,” she pointed to a girl of about ten years who was sitting with Nurse Laura, getting her hair braided by the latter while Laura talked to Herrn Heim next to her. Anni explained: “There are no mothers consulting hours at Saturday, so I’m doing all the tasks that get me far out of Artur’s way.” Otto had apparently been right; that sounded like her marriage had reached its end. It didn’t seem to be her primary concern. “Were you upstairs?”

The question hurt Martin – because the answer should have always, always been yes. Sleeping in a bed of his own had felt strange and wrong. “I wasn’t today,” he said truthfully.

Anni shrugged uncomfortably. “Otto was kind of miserable yesterday, but he wouldn’t tell me why. I thought you might know.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, wincing as something crashed outside. “He’s not talking to me like he used to,” she added.

“He said _you’re_ not talking to _him_ ,” Martin noted. _He also said I’m not talking to him, and he’s probably right_.

Anni faltered for a moment before she said meekly: “I don’t want him to worry even more than he already does.”

Martin laughed without a trace of humor, thinking of Otto’s outburst. “Is that a Marquardtian family disease?”

Anni’s brief flicker of a grin died away at the next crash that vibrated through the bunker, rattling the instruments before Martin on their tray. “God, but that was close,” she whispered and slung her arms around herself.

Martin noticed that his hands were shaking and put down the retractor he was holding.

Another blast, too loud again, _too close_. Dr. Jung and Dr. Sauerbruch looked at the ceiling before returning to their hushed conversation. Ruppert was pale, and Martin hoped he wouldn’t vomit again – although he’d hardly be able to hold it against him. He himself could barely breathe right. _In, out. In, out._

Laura put her arm around the girl with the broken wrist in an attempt to offer comfort, and Herr Heim set a hand on her shoulder in turn. Between her fingers, Laura kept twining her old rosary.

Martin gripped for Otto’s necklace and wished he could believe in a God – someone he could have asked to protect Otto and Karin who were alone up there, the roof over their heads more of a hazard than a protection. Wished for someone who could promise him that he’d see them again unharmed, that the one person most important to him hadn’t been hurt so far and wouldn’t get hurt. _Inhale, exhale_ …

The next blast was accompanied by the thundering shatter of solid stone; some building on Charité’s area had been hit. _The surgical ward is the nearest, and the attic is already damaged_.

Ringing for air, Martin stumbled to the next bench to sit down, trying and failing to cast the images of horror out of his head. He wanted to get out of here, he _needed_ to get out of here, had to get to Otto; for heaven’s sake…

Next to him, Anni curled up, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping both arms around her knees, unable to offer anything consoling as she was just as trembling and frightened as he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see... the Ardennes Counteroffensive was a failed attempt to get the port of Antwerp back and thus an important military base that could have helped Germany to a stalemate peace. Or so they hoped.  
> Operation Nordwind in Lorraine ended on 25 January 1945; as far as I can tell, it was about the last time the Germans gained some victory worth mentioning in pushing back the Allied forces. Quite a Pyrrhic victory, and it didn’t last.  
> On the Eastern front, we have the Battle of Posen (Poznań) starting 24 January and lasting a month, and the less-than-ideally organized evacuation of Breslau so the Germans could hold out against a siege until _freaking May_ because, I dunno, those morons loved doing overtimes or didn’t know when to fold 'em. 
> 
> The chapter ends on 3 February 1945 when one of the largest, possibly the most devastating air raid of the USAAF on Berlin took place, with focus on the city center. Large parts of Kreuzberg, Luisenstadt, Friedrichshain and Mitte were either destroyed or on fire when the bombings ended. 
> 
> Warning: The rest of this author's note is kind of a useless rant. 
> 
> The chapter title is referencing the Bing Crosby song "Hot Time in the Town of Berlin". I stumbled across it in the early-1940's charts, and it _pissed. Me. Off_. Guess one has to be a 1940's American to enjoy that cringeworthy combination of merry-jolly singing and lyrics that _glorify the destruction of a city_. I thought after studying history for years, I could deal with some old propaganda, but... _ugh_. Consider my chapter titling an expression of post-war generation moral indignation. I'll take comfort in the knowledge that it was the Soviets who took Berlin. At least I didn't find their "Yay, it's off to slay and burn we go" songs so far. Cut me some slack; I'm up to my ears in research on how exactly the last couple months of the war were for civilians in Berlin. It sucked. It sucked hard. _*flounces off*_


	20. Here in the Gloom

The waiting was unbearable, and the quiet after the bombings made it worse. When no new raid had set in at half past twelve, Sauerbruch glanced over his shoulder, looking up from the round among the patients he was making with Jung and Ruppert. “Someone go check if the war is over.”

Martin leaped up and made his way to the bunker’s exit. Another nurse accompanied him, and only when they’d reached the door and had to wait for the guards to open he saw that it was Christel. She was trembling slightly, just as tense as he was, although probably for different reasons.

One of the guards stepped back, the other opened the door and led the way out. First thing Martin noticed was the light. There was something wrong about it. It looked kind of gloomy and made him think, nonsensically, that they had a thunderstorm coming in. But then he and Christel followed the guard outside. Martin wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t _that_. A sight like that was something from his nightmares of the Balkans.

Berlin was _ablaze_.

It wasn’t the first time, but now there were no distant flames sporadically flickering up in the night. Now they were surrounded by fire and yet the city was dark beneath the fume, right on midday. In the direction of Kreuzberg, the sky was tinged in an ominous red glow. The wind should have been icy, but the air it whipped into their faces nearly singed their skin. Not one building in their line of sight was undamaged – all those that weren’t wrecked yet were on fire. Martin’s home city was a gaping, festering wound.

“Goodness,” Christel whispered. Martin didn’t know anything to add. It had been years since he’d been so close to the war, none of it more than a few meters away. _Hamburg must have looked like that_.

“Get back inside!” Christel said suddenly and urgently, whirling over to the guards. “Now – _shut the doors_ \- or we’ll have a hundred smoke intoxications in there!” She hurried back to the bunker.

Martin turned to follow her, and the surgery building caught his eye. The smoking, dark spot on the roof that could only be a hole. Everything stopped briefly, his thoughts, his breath, his heart, and, strangely enough, he felt cold. Then he ran, hearing Christel yell: “You moron!” without being able to care.

* * *

As Martin sprinted upstairs, he thought that he and Anni had to bring the two from the attic down to the cellars in secret and hide them there. He thought that he’d ask those of his colleagues whom he trusted for help. Damn, he would escape the city at night with Otto and Karin and walk through the woods all the way to Bavaria if that was what it took. It was a whole bunch of ridiculous thoughts. But there was one thing he refused to think of: Two corpses he’d find in a corner of the attic, curled up in an attempt for cover, suffocated in the smoke or already torched up.

Reaching the upper floor, he started to cough when he ran into a surge of hazy air. Martin quickly checked every room he passed, but none of them were on fire. In one of the flats at the back – Fräulein Fritsch’s, come to think of it – the window had collapsed; fume from outside oozed slowly into the hallway. No embers to see, though, so he hasted onwards.

The ladder was intact, yet Martin almost managed to fall off of it from half height. He caught himself, scrambled further. All the adrenaline pulsing through him didn’t offer room for another scare.

He opened the door and was relieved for half a second to find a room that wasn’t filled with smoke. There was indeed a shell fragment that had burst through the roof, sharp-edged steel, charred, about as long as his arm, but no fire. The point of impact was blackened and fuming, but the flames hadn’t made their way through the floorboards and the scorched spot wasn’t as big as it could have been. The faint ring of not yet evaporated water surrounding it and the empty bucket nearby hinted that Otto had tackled the problem immediately.

But – where was he? Hadn’t he wanted to sing to Karin during the raids? Why was the kid not crying? The quiet made Martin’s guts clench on themselves. _What now? What if_ … He ran to the living area where shards of wood and roof tiles had been slung. The impact had apparently knocked Karin’s bed over, dishes were scattered in pieces over the floor, and a layer of render had crumbled down all over it.

Otto’s blanket was not on the bed, though, but beneath it; a corner of it was peeping out, and Martin crouched down to look under the bed.

There was Otto, curled up with Karin in his arms, both of them shielded and padded against impacts, _unhurt_ , and Martin’s heart was pounding almost painfully against his chest – _he’s alive, he’s alive; it’s alright_ – and Karin was miraculously quiet, her eyes wide in the dim light as she listened to Otto who was ceaselessly – no, not singing, just _talking_ , his voice so hushed Martin only understood him now kneeling right in front of him and so croaky that he wondered if Otto _had_ sung until he just couldn’t anymore.

“…and throughout all days, even on the way to her execution, she’d weave the shirts and keep her silence and she never allowed for the nettles to be taken away. When she stood atop the pyre and it was set ablaze, her brothers came to her aid, and all the people were amazed with the swans circling the fire. The sister greeted them with a smile and threw the shirts over them, one after another…”

Martin gasped as he could suddenly breathe again, barely able of holding in the bout of relieved laughter threatening to burst out because _of course_ Otto would tell Karin tales so she’d feel safe and didn’t have to listen to the noise and fire outside. “Otto. _Otto_!”

He only reacted to the second call, looking up as though Martin had woken him from a dream, absent-minded and a bit puzzled. Martin held a hand out to him. It took a moment for Otto to move; first, he gave him Karin. He’d somehow managed to keep her from getting too distraught although she still whined a bit when Martin perched her on his hip – she probably hated the smell of fume.

He reached under the bed again, and this time, Otto took his hand and let himself be dragged out, struggling to get up to his knees and look at Martin. He was sweaty and disheveled and had some grime left on his arms from his hasty fire-fighting, but no scratch, no burns. There was just that weary expression in his eyes, betraying that he was too exhausted for more fear or horror. That gaze was nothing but _sore_.

Martin pulled him close. Otto hardly returned the hug, barely any strength in his arms, and his head dropped heavily on Martin’s shoulder. For the first time ever, Otto felt frail to him. It was a terrible feeling. Martin couldn’t do anything about it but hold him and say: “I’m here. It’s alright.”

Karin squirmed in his arm and griped, so Martin set her down on her feet and let her toddle off. Now that he had both hands free, he braced them around Otto, pressing one kiss after another to his forehead and temples and hair, always repeating: “I’m here. It’s alright; I’m here.”

Otto made a noise that Martin had never heard from him and never wanted to hear again, something halfway between a whimper and a sob, too breathless for a scream but just as tortured as if he _wanted_ to scream and never stop again. Again, everything inside Martin clenched up when he thought of the moment the shell had hit the roof and Otto had been alone here with Karin – not allowed to leave, unable to _run_.

There was one clear thought Martin managed: He _knew_ that Otto was not unbreakable. He had to stop treating him like it, whether he blushed when he lied or not.

“Karin, _don’t_!” The exclamation startled him, and Otto loosened from him to stagger to his niece. Martin followed, ready to catch him – he wasn’t sure at all that Otto wouldn’t collapse.

The kid, in the middle of reaching out for a shard of a roof tile, faltered and looked taken aback when Otto picked her up and brought her away from her finding. Martin set her bed upright again, checking for damages and shaking off the dust, and Otto sat Karin down in it. She eyed the wooden grid before her with some consternation and began climbing it.

Otto looked at Martin, blinking several times. “Martin… are you–”

“I’m fine,” he assured quickly.

Otto smiled on that, an incredibly brittle smile that made Martin’s anger flare up because _why the hell was Otto smiling when he was so obviously miserable_ , but then it was Otto who hugged him and Martin felt a bit more secure and at rest holding him and being held by him, hearing his voice as he began: “Do you know if Anni…”

“She’s still down in the bunker. She’s afraid, but not hurt.”

Martin wished they’d have the time to just stand there like that for a while – or better, sit – until Otto wasn’t so devastated anymore, but there was still an agitated and confused little girl who really didn’t want to stay where she was.

“Oh, Karin…” Otto sighed and let go of Martin again when Karin managed to clamber out of her bed. Martin snatched her up and the kid began to grouse. _For heaven’s sake_.

Otto looked around the attic like a sleepwalker. Then he took one of the buckets Martin and Anni used for getting water. “We have to tidy this up,” he mumbled, knelt down and began to pick up rubble.

Martin watched him incredulously for a few moments. “Do you want to rest for a bit?” he asked eventually in a gentle tone.

“I’ll never sleep again,” Otto replied without a trace of humor, and the sentence was like a punch to the stomach, but at least Otto’s voice sounded almost normal again. Only, Karin wailed louder. Otto hid his face in both his hands and just sort of doubled over. In all the time up here, he’d never been bothered by baby screams. But right now, everything seemed to be too much.

Martin just sat Karin down in a corner without sharp splinters, showed her how to use the hand brush and left the new toy to her. She appeared quite fascinated with the principle and would be busy for now. He himself went to join Otto in tidying up the mess; what else would they have done?

It was quiet for a while; only the far-off cries and the crackling fire that was devouring the buildings were audible from the city. At some point, Otto produced another exhausted sigh and dropped a shattered tin cover into his bucket, followed by the correspondent technic parts. “That was the radio,” he said bleakly, looking so desperate again.

“That’s not a disaster,” Martin said perplexedly.

Otto nodded after a brief pause. “Yes.” Martin could hardly hear the next bit: “I don’t really like the quiet.”

 _Oh, dammit_. Of course. Otto had lamented that he was just sitting and waiting around every day, and the quiet _hurt_ , had always hurt – in prison, on the front, in the shelter and the bunker, waiting, _waiting_ , for the buzz of aircrafts, for the blast, for the bursting of bricks… “I’ll bring mine here,” Martin said before he remembered: “If it’s still intact.”

Otto grinned for a split second on the addition.

They agreed soon that it was Martin who’d have to climb up into the truss – it would take an eternity, but Otto had a realistic chance to catch him in a fall without breaking anything. Cautiously, Martin moved closer to the point of impact while Otto monitored his movements from the floor. He inhaled sharply when Martin pulled himself up on the next wooden beam with some momentum, but he didn’t say anything.

Martin examined the hole in the roof with his hand. “Watch out!” he warned when the roof tiles around the edge crumbled in his grip. Otto dodged the incoming torrent, and Karin, studying brush bristles, made a startled sound when the tiles hit the ground.

“We have to find a metal sheet or something else to cover that,” Martin said downwards.

“And the beams?” Otto inquired. “Are those in danger of collapsing?”

Martin eyed the state of affairs carefully. One crossbeam hadn’t been right in the line of fire but was close to the hole. There was a notch hit into it, but it hadn’t split the wood. “All solid.”

Otto didn’t answer right away. Then: “About yesterday, Martin…”

Martin swallowed and looked down, meeting Otto’s gaze which was a bit steadier now. “Is this the right time to talk about yesterday?” Martin asked hesitantly. He _had_ planned to talk about it, but…

Otto shrugged and nodded toward the window where the blanket covering it didn’t do much to hide the fire’s glow in the city. “Do you want to talk about that?”

Point. “No,” Martin conceded and started his way down.

In front of the lowest beam, Otto held out a hand to brace him. “I really don’t want to silence at you right now.”

Martin hopped back to the floor, stumbled, caught himself on Otto’s shoulder. Otto was still looking at him which Martin thought was a good sign. On the other hand, it reminded him of all the shit he’d said. “Then at least let me start,” he requested. “I’m sorry. I’m still not happy that you went downstairs and I’m still afraid for you, but I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

Otto scoffed half-heartedly. “You’re not afraid when I’m up here?” he asked and set his forehead on Martin’s shoulder.

Martin viewed the hole in the roof where no afternoon light was to be seen, only the dark layer of smoke. The opening was less than a meter wide, and if the shell had been in full glow upon the impact, Otto would hardly have been able to save the situation with a bucket of water. They’d been immensely lucky. Which didn’t change a thing about the suffered fear.

His leg was aching after the climb. He would have liked to take off the prosthesis, but presenting himself as vulnerable before Otto when they were speaking like that would have felt manipulative, so he sat down instead. Otto squatted next to him, resting against the wooden beam.

“This here,” Martin glimpsed at the room, “this is the worst. I know it’s no fun. And what I said about Karin – that was crap. Nobody could take better care of her than you.”

Otto grasped his hand. “And I shouldn’t have said that, about… about him.” He took a deep breath and added gingerly: “It’s none of my business.”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut for a second. That wasn’t right. “If we start saying that one another’s problems are not our business, we’re not getting anywhere,” he noted, finally reaching the point of which they both had accused each other. This time it was him who was searching Otto’s eyes. “You’re not eating regularly, you’re not sleeping well. I thought you don’t have as many nightmares anymore, but you just stopped talking to me about them.”

Otto carded a hand through his hair, wrapped both arms around himself then and hunched up his shoulders. “I’m not well,” he confessed quietly and full of shame. “I know I should; I know what a hassle it is to you and Anni, but… I can’t do anything up here. Just wait, be quiet. Anni is here more often now; I think she can’t bear being around Artur much. And I can’t help her. And then you come back from work and you’re so tired after twelve hours or thirteen; God, I… I can at least let you sleep in peace instead of blubbering all over you. I’m so _tired_ of being a burden to you; I’m _so tired_ of all this shit…” Barely audible anymore, he added: “I’m so useless here.”

“That’s not– Otto, you’re _not useless_ ,” Martin said, upset. “I know this isn’t great, but it’s still important. What would become of Karin without you?”

Otto burrowed his face on his knees, entirely curled up now. “But this here isn’t any good for Karin, either. This isn’t a place to grow up. She’s… She’s been here for half a year; she’s beginning to _walk_ , for heaven’s sake. We should go to the city with her and show her everything. She should be allowed to hop around and yell, not always be kept quiet so she won’t get killed. She shouldn’t be less than three meters away from a bomb fragment. She should meet her grandma; my mother has never even seen her and… oh God, _Mother_.”

Martin put an arm around Otto’s shoulders, but it didn’t do anything to ease up his posture. “She hasn’t known in months where I am. I want my mother to not constantly fear for me. And I want _out of here_.” The last words came out with a despair that cut into Martin’s heart. “This is all taking too long.”

Martin closed his eyes again. “True.” He’d hoped it would go over faster – that the beginning of the year would have been the end of it. The war was lost, but the battles went on. Some lunatic had said they would fight to the last man, and enough other lunatics had bought into it. “They’re more resilient than one should hope.”

But even though he couldn’t change that right now… “Otto? Can you please tell me things like that from now on? I really don’t… It shouldn’t be like that. Even if you think that it’s demanding too much of me or if you wake me up in the middle of the night or whatever. I thought you’re better, and now… I want to know when you’re not well. It’s not right that you smile and put on an act just to spare my nerves.”

That helped. Otto leaned to him again, his head resting at the crook of Martin’s neck. “Alright,” he croaked. “If you prefer that. So do I.”

 _Right_. He couldn’t demand of Otto what he couldn’t handle himself. “I’ll try not to shut myself off each time everything isn’t sunshine and daisies,” Martin promised. _Also, not to yell at Otto when he asks about your grief and nightmares, Schelling_.

Otto seemed to have thought of the same. He suddenly clutched Martin’s arm, his fingernails digging into Martin’s skin through the sleeve. “Martin… when you said you… did you want… Please tell me you don’t… want to…”

Martin winced. _He shouldn’t have to fear that_. “No, not anymore.”

He didn’t add that Otto was all that kept him alive right now, that he’d all but gone insane with the idea of Otto dying in the fire. Otto already felt responsible for too much crap… Yes, he’d have to mention it now; it weighed down on him too heavily. “Otto. My arrest – that was _not_ your fault. Christel denounced me.”

“Because I provoked her,” Otto muttered into his collar.

“You haven’t– you’re not responsible for what that woman does,” Martin insisted. Sure, Otto’s interactions with Christel hadn’t been ideal, but…

Otto shook his head. “I should have been more alert.” And before Martin could object again, Otto asked: “When did you stop blaming yourself for what happened to T… to him?”

Martin pressed his lips together. What had the attempt at pretending been good for? “I haven’t,” he admitted.

Otto shrugged minutely, a silent, feeble: _See?_ Martin hated it. Among all the things he’d wished to spare Otto, a permanent feeling of guilt was pretty far up on the list.

He wanted to promise him that things would get better. Wanted to promise him all the things they’d wanted – sleeping without fear, living together, a place for the two of them, showing Otto all of Berlin he hadn’t seen yet. Now, not even Berlin was left. “I’m here now,” was all he could offer, and it seemed so lacking. “I’m not leaving again.”

“But it was awful.” Otto raised his head, and now he was crying. “It was awful enough for _me_ – I can’t even imagine what it was like for _you_. It still frightens you.”

Martin’s first impulse was to deny it. But that was nonsense; Otto knew him well enough to know that it was. And not to talk about it had led them to that terrible fight in the first place. “It’s been frightening me for near six years. That’s not your fault,” he said, wiping the tears from the corners of Otto’s eyes with his thumbs.

Otto kissed him but started back instantly when there were steps clattering up the ladder in a hurry and the door was slammed open.

In stumbled Anni, her coat blotched black with soot and her face white as chalk, and she’d have almost broken her neck in her haste to scramble across the wooden beams and hug her brother. “ _Otto_! My God, you’re…” Otto didn’t get a chance to reply since Anni just let go of him again and ran to the living area to pick up a nonplussed Karin and cradle her in her arms. “Come here, you…”

Then she broke out in uncontrollable sobs.

Martin looked away, somewhat awkward. Anni certainly wouldn’t like it if he saw her cry. And there were things to do. “I have go down to the ward. There’s probably all hell breaking loose,” he said to Otto.

He wasn’t happy at all to leave Otto alone in his state of mind, but Otto just squeezed his hand once more. “Take care.”

Martin nodded. “Can get late, though.”

* * *

Rushing down the staircase, Martin still took about a minute to check each floor for fires. On the hallway of the second floor, he ran into Herrn Heim who was for some reason drenched from head to toe and carrying an iron bar that looked like it had once been part of an infusion bottle fixture.

“Martin,” Heim grabbed his arm and glanced at him sharply. “Were you upstairs?”

That caught him off-guard. How should he explain his rash escape from the bunker? “I…”

But Heim couldn’t have cared less. “Are there fires?”

“No – no, it’s just full of holes,” Martin reported quickly.

“Good.” Herr Heim just dragged him along the hallway to the backside of the building. “The back wing is burning – are you afraid of fire?”

“Less than of bombs.” Which wasn’t a high benchmark, but it seemed to be enough for Heim.

“Then you’ll go in with me,” he said in a tone that didn’t allow for objections. “The fume’s not clearing out; we have to pry the window open.” He waved with the bar. “Half the wall is pressing down on the frames, it’s all stuck.”

Passing the hallway windows, Martin caught a glance of the courtyard which was full of hustling people. Jung was handling the water pump, Fräulein Fritsch passed the filled buckets on to a queue of people that reached into the building, the Sauerbruchs stood amidst the chaos, solid as a rock, and directed everything.

“Who’s with the patients?” Martin asked when he and Heim reached the other end of the queue which consisted of nurses, students, doctors and all patients who were able to stand, endlessly handing water up to a room on their floor from which black smoke emerged.

“Hansen and Wagner,” Heim replied.

A man came stumbling from the burning room, coughing and wheezing. When he tore the unshapely cloth from his face that served him as a mask, Martin was surprised to see it was Ruppert. No trace of insecurity was on him when he called to the queue on the stairs: “Keep it up; we almost got it! – Heim, did you find…” His face brightened when Heim showed him the iron bar.

“Martin!” Angelika’s voice sounded urgent, but he couldn’t turn to face her because she was pulling his working coat from his shoulders. As soon as the next load of water came upstairs, Angelika soaked the coat in it before unfolding it and helping Martin to wedge himself back into it.

Heim looked at the nearest nurse. “Laura, do we have another…”

She instantly took off her apron and subjected it to the same procedure before wrapping the wet garment around the lower half of Martin’s face. Heim and Ruppert each renewed their provisional breathing protections, too, and then more buckets of water reached them and they walked into the fiery inferno awaiting them in the room.

Martin muttered a curse into his mask.

He could hardly see as far as the next step in all the fume; Ruppert’s claim that they “almost got it” had been rather optimistic. The ward had been cleared of anything useful – Martin didn’t want to know how long Heim would have been searching for anything usable to break open a window – but this room had apparently been a doctor’s office which meant there was a cabinet, a few chairs, a desk, several shelves. All made of wood. And what moron’s idea had been the wallpaper?

In the wreck of another cabinet was, surrounded by flames, something that Martin thought was part of an incendiary bomb, though at least it didn’t smell of phosphorus. The shell had torn down the entire left side of the outer wall, but the mass of debris from the upper floor had crushed down as well, replaced the wall and was blocking the smoke’s way out.

Ruppert emptied his bucket over the smoldering desk remains. Martin did the same and also kicked the still burning chair aside so Heim could reach the window.

The latter made his way through the fume, coughed, set the end of the bar to the window’s edge and pushed. When Martin already wanted to tell him to just smash the window, _forget about splinters_ , the stupid hinges snapped and the window jolted open.

Ruppert took a few seconds to retch up half his lungs in the upwhirling smoke; Heim and Martin went to get the next couple buckets. “Did anyone try to reach the fire brigade?” Martin asked.

Heim laughed dismally. “Forget it, they’re not coming here. They’re completely overtaxed.”

* * *

There was no end to it. The fires in the surgery building had hardly been quenched when they were ordered to help the other houses save what could be saved. And, when the flames finally gave way to ruins, to retrieve wounded people and corpses. The patients were on a shift rotation, the staff worked incessantly.

A continual coming and going prevailed in the OR bunker. Dr. Sauerbruch and the head nurse had established some order on the ward, but it wouldn’t hold up for long now that the casualties from the city were brought in. With only the rooms on the lower floors still in use, it was only a matter of time until they’d be overloaded.

Martin had lost track of how many wounds he’d disinfected and how many bandages he’d applied. The smoke had dispersed somewhat throughout the hospital area which had helped the coughing everywhere a bit, but there were always more people coming in and with them the reports. _Anhalter Bahnhof_ was a pile of debris, _Potsdamer Bahnhof_ as well. The Cathedral had been hit again, and so had Schöneberg and Tempelhof. The Palace and the State Opera were on fire. And just about _everything_ in Kreuzberg burned. Martin had reached a point where he blocked out the talk so he could focus on his work. It wasn’t kind – those people were seriously distressed – but if he kept listening, he’d lose his mind.

When he came back from the bunker, headed for the ward after delivering the next patient to Dr. Hansen, he heard rapid steps behind him and someone caught his sleeve. “Martin?”

With a sigh, he turned over. A girl he didn’t know stood before him.

…no. Not a stranger. She was taller and thinner than last time he’d seen her and wasn’t wearing a cast, but both her knees were scratched to bloody messes and her dress was crusted with dirt and soot. “Lottchen?” Martin couldn’t keep the dismay from his voice.

“You have to help me!” she urged him. “Mama is still in our house; she can’t get out, she was in the laundry cellar when it collapsed – but I heard her shouting! Someone has to get her out there, she can’t breathe!”

Martin looked around hastily, but they were lucky – an ambulance was just driving into the courtyard. He grabbed Lottchen’s hand and dragged her to the car. “Hey!” he called the driver. “Where’s next stop? Still _Ritterstraße_?”

On the confirmation, Lottchen called out: “That’s just around the corner from our place!”

The driver heard out the address and the place where Lottchen’s mother was to be found. Then he nodded. “Fine, we’ll have a look. No promises, though.”

As he waved Lottchen to step back, the girl scowled. “I’m coming along!”

The driver scoffed. “You forget that, Fräulein. You have no business being there. Your daft mother should have had you brought out of the city months ago.” And he slammed the car’s door shut.

Martin couldn’t say out loudly that he agreed with him on that. He had to do something about Lottchen who stood there with her fists clenched, a desperate, _empty_ expression on her face that looked just wrong on an eight-year-old.

When the ambulance took off, Martin put a hand on her shoulder, attempting to steer her in the direction of the pediatric ward. “Come on, I’ll bring you to the other children. Someone there will look after your knees, too.”

Lottchen shook his hand off. “No,” she said brusquely. “I’ll stay with you.”

 _Oh, please, not now_. Martin took a slow, deliberate breath. He couldn’t yell at a distraught child that he didn’t have time for her nonsense. “Lottchen, you’ll be fine at the pediatric ward; the nurses there will take care of you.”

“But I don’t want to do _nothing_ ,” Lottchen said adamantly. Martin thought of Otto and the idleness eating away at him. “I want to help.” For a second there, Martin was waiting for the addition, _“would like to, please”_ , spoken with a childish, wide-eyed gaze. He waited in vain. Lottchen’s eyes were rigid as stone.

He gave up. Explained to Lottchen where she could get water and where used wound dressing was to be discarded and then went back to work, accompanied by an untiring assistant who handed him things and took them from him and hardly ever said a word. Back then, more than a year ago, Martin hadn’t known how much he’d liked the chattering, blithe kid. Now he knew.

Learning that her mother had been found, carted to Charité and brought to the OR wasn’t enough to really calm Lottchen, but sometime around 8 p.m., she was so exhausted that she sat down on a bench in the hallway and watched the hustle around wearily until a boy, a little younger than herself, sat with her and gingerly began a conversation.

Martin was just coming back from distributing analgesics when Laura stopped him by the nurses’ room. “Martin, here,” she handed him a butter sandwich, apparently a leftover from an entire basket of sandwiches that she’d certainly passed through the entire staff before. “Don’t want you to drop dead.”

Then she leaned to the wall, taking a bite of her own bread and chewing forcefully. Martin did the same. “Thanks.” He actually was quite hungry, he realized as soon as he got some food between his teeth.

While they had their brief respite, Martin noticed that Laura looked over at the two children occasionally, albeit not with a quizzical expression, but like checking on them. That gave him a hunch. “The kid with Lottchen, is that your nephew?”

Laura nodded and swallowed a mouthful of bread. “Yes, that’s Rudolf. I had to bring him here.” She was quiet for a few seconds before she added: “Herr Fischer is dead,” and quickly lowered her head.

 _Crap_. The old man had been dear to her. “I’m sorry,” Martin said, which felt horribly inadequate.

Laura nodded. Shook her head, shrugged. “So am I,” she said. The she set her empty bread basket aside and straightened her back. “Come on, let’s bring the two brats to bed. I already talked to Nurse Antje; they’re awaiting the kids over there.”

Lottchen protested drowsily against Martin picking her up from her place where she’d been about to nap away. “I’m not tired at all,” she claimed, and the trace of childishness made Martin smile.

“Your Mama is out of the OR; you don’t need to worry now,” he assured and hoisted the girl onto his shoulders while Rudolf next to them clung to Laura with both arms and legs.

Lottchen muttered: “Then I have to go see her.”

“She’s asleep,” Martin said, not feeling like explaining that her mother’s chest was a right patchwork now. “She’s stable now, but she’s very exhausted. You can visit her tomorrow.”

Lottchen didn’t reply to that, and when they reached the pediatric ward, she was already asleep. A nurse took the kids from them – Anni wasn’t around, but Martin assumed she had enough to do for now.

* * *

Back at the surgical ward, Laura went to work again, and Martin wanted to follow her when he was called. “Martin?” Head Nurse Elisabeth waved to him. “Phone call for you.”

Puzzled, he went to the nurses’ room. Who would call him? Couldn’t be Leibfried; Martin had been punctual for his last interrogation. He couldn’t think of that many people who’d try to contact him here. Rainer perhaps. God, Martin hoped he and his family were alright…

“Charité, surgery, Nurse Schelling,” he said curtly into the receiver.

“Fried– Horst Wessel hospital, also surgery, Dr. Seidel,” a female voice said. “Am I speaking to Martin Schelling?”

He frowned. “Yes?”

“Do you know a Georg Schelling?” the doctor asked. “He’s our patient, brought in two hours ago. He indicated you as his emergency contact.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a line of James V. Monaco's / Mack Gordon's song "I'm making believe", most famously sung by Ella Fitzgerald and in the charts of 1944. The fairytale Otto is telling Karin is "The six swans"; copyrights are with the Brothers Grimm, I think. 
> 
> "Horst Wessel hospital" was the Nazi time name for the Friedrichshain hospital. And no, Martin, Hamburg in July 1943 looked way worse that Berlin ever did, but he's in the city center and pretty up close to the worst of it, and he's getting a first-minute impression, so that place looks like hell to him. 
> 
> I guess there's decidedly too much breakdown and talking in this chapter, but... what? Another cliffhanger? Heh, no. You must be imagining that. Because that would mean that I'd take three chapters to describe less than three days. Which would screw up my pacing for good. Which is why it's absurd.  
> ... _*sigh*_


	21. As the Ashes keep us warm

In the end, the head nurse probably let him go because he hadn’t once been away due to health or familial issues in all his time at Charité. Martin wished she’d have made him stay and help with the chaos. At least then he’d have had a decent reason to spare himself that.

The only good reason he had to not spare himself that was the morbid certainty that he’d have a harder time dealing with his father dying in his absence than he would if he’d have to watch his father die.

Morosely, he shuffled through the devastated streets, hoping that the honored Herr Schelling would kindly just not die. To resent him from afar was easy. Mourning him would be difficult.

Berlin was a frightful sight. The night was still brightened by fires beyond counting. There was the one or other fire brigade, but nowhere near as many as would have been needed. The city was too warm for February, the air so dusty that he pulled his scarf over his face so he wouldn’t cough nonstop. The wind was spreading the ashes and still fanning the flames.

Almost all of the trams were out of order; Martin occasionally passed a burning wagon. In the end, he walked most of the way. Not an effortless task, either; the fire had melted the leftover snow, burst pipes had flooded several streets and thus added steam to the smoke and upwhirled dust, and he couldn’t go three meters without having to sidestep scraps of stone, wood and glass. Every now and then, there seemed to be bodies between the rubble; he caught a glimpse of an arm here, a foot there. Then he lowered his head, tried not to look.

Further to the east, the destruction had been less thorough, but the hospital in Friedrichshain had also had its share. Even in the dark, he could see the fuming remains of buildings. He ignored the soot-blackened plate at the gate that labeled this place _“Horst Wessel hospital”_ – it had already gotten that name when Martin had still been a kid, but that had never really spread to everyone. Even most of his colleagues still said _“Friedrichshain”_ when it didn’t come to formal documents.

Finally, he’d asked his way to the undamaged buildings and then to the surgery. Dr. Seidel who had phoned him was a nice person, although obviously stressed out. She rattled off that Martin’s father had been retrieved from a bombed subway station with a few others, that he’d suffered three fractured ribs and a pneumothorax and had already been to the OR. Successfully so, she told him with an encouraging smile that failed to have much of an impact since Martin wasn’t sure he should be glad that his father was stabilized and awake – because that meant he actually had to talk to him.

Dr. Seidel told him where he’d find his father and then excused herself as she was expected elsewhere.

 _So am I_ , Martin thought with a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with all the ashes and dust outside. Stepping into the ward, he let his doubting gaze scan the patients. Most of them were already dozing off into an exhausted sleep; some were quietly speaking to relatives on their bedsides. A lean man past mid-age was sitting upright, his back propped up to unburden the lungs. That couldn’t– but yes. It had to be him.

Martin actually had to do a double-take – not because Georg Schelling was disfigured by injuries or covered in bandages. He’d simply grown old. Last time Martin had seen his father, at that apartment door and with a bundle of sandwiches as a farewell gift, his hair had been the same dark brown shade as Martin’s own. Now it was completely white. Deep wrinkles creased his face, and his hands that Martin remembered as the large, robust, never-resting hands of a worker showed clear signs of an arthrosis. How had he aged so much in those few years?

When Martin hesitantly walked over to his bed, his father looked up, and it seemed to take him a moment, too, to reconcile the boy he’d shown to the door back then with the man before him now. Then he smiled sheepishly. “Martin.”

Martin didn’t answer. What should he have said? Father? _Papa_? Georg would have felt strange, Herr Schelling sounded deliberately snotty. He stuffed both hands into his pockets so he could clench his fists unseen.

The lack of a reply appeared to make his father feel awkward soon; he began to talk in an artificially cheery tone that Martin didn’t know of him. Actually, he didn’t know the man at all. “I hoped they’d reach you; I didn’t know…”

“Why?” Martin cut him off. His father blinked, seemingly confused, and Martin had almost rolled his eyes. “Why am I your emergency contact? Last time we saw, you were married. Where is she?” Like hell he’d call her Mother.

“Oh – she went to your aunt,” his father explained. “Just before Christmas. I don’t know if she’ll come back.”

Georg Schelling looked oddly meek. Martin supposed he was glaring down at him, but he didn’t feel like trying for a friendlier expression. “She’s well off there. Why didn’t you go with her before everyone here went insane?”

“The company. They wouldn’t let me.” A resigned smile.

Martin nodded. The machine parts were important for the war. “Right.”

His father appeared to notice that he hadn’t much interest in being here now. “Martin, listen, I… there’s… so much happened, and… I’m so glad that you’re alive.” He made a hand motion as if he wanted to pat Martin’s arm or the like.

Martin flinched away. His fingernails burrowed deeply into his palms. He was seething. He was twenty again, eighteen, fifteen. Schoolmates had beaten him up – Mother had made a fuss over the bruises and Father had stopped asking questions. Martin had been conscripted – Mother had told him to quit whining and do his best; Father hadn’t said anything. Martin had been sitting in a cell, in a courtroom, inwardly screaming for his parents, and they hadn’t been there. Mother’s farewell gift had been a beating, and his father had been silent.

“Oh, now you’re glad?” Martin hissed. His father looked at him with something he couldn’t quite read, shame or perhaps fear. He didn’t care. How long had this man not said anything? Which _right_ did he have to speak now? Which right did he have to call him here? “You knew where I am. You got my letter. When I came back and wrote to you about my leg and my new job.”

Georg Schelling avoided his gaze. Stared at his hands instead. At the blanket. “I… yes, I have,” he said quietly.

Martin nodded and looked away, too, into the void. “You could have reached out four years ago.” _When I was almost unconscious with pain and fever. When my leg was slowly rotting away and the only thing that could save me was crippling me. You could have been there when they took Theo away. When my mother turned her back on me_. His knuckles began to hurt, but he didn’t manage to uncurl his hands.

“I made a mistake.” Georg Schelling’s voice was hardly audible anymore. “I made a lot of mistakes.”

“You think?” Part of Martin wondered coldly if his father was begging for forgiveness or for attention. Another part shouted that he couldn’t have either. He didn’t say anything of that. “Why am I here?”

That confused blinking again. “I don’t understand…”

“Why’d they get me?” Martin was beginning to lose his patience. What kind of inept moron did he have to deal with? “You’re conscious, you’re in your right mind. Do you _need_ anything?”

“I… no. You were probably called because my lung collapsed in the OR, but the doctor surely told you…”

“She has,” Martin interrupted him. “So? I suppose once you’re stable, you’ll find your way home.” He remembered something and scowled at his father, his eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your home.” He had neither the time nor the slightest enthusiasm to invest in the search for a home for the honored Herrn Schelling.

The latter hastily shook his head, obviously attempting to appease him. “No, no, I’m staying with friends for now.”

“Good.” _Great, even. Makes this visit a colossal waste of time_. He set out to leave.

That seemed to startle his father. “Martin! Don’t run out on me!” A demanding tone had cropped up in his voice.

Martin whirled over, for a split second willing to punch him. “I’m not running out,” he growled. The presence of the other patients, visitors and nurses was all that kept him from yelling. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the city’s on fire. Lots of people are dead, and some that aren’t dead yet need help. The hospitals are utterly overcharged, and I happen to work in a hospital, which means my hands could be put to use somewhere, which means I have better things to do than _stand around here and warm up your nostalgia with you_.”

His father opened his mouth and then shut it again.

Martin scoffed. “What, nothing to say? Yes, that’s familiar.”

Georg Schelling looked at him. Looked away again. “I’m sorry.”

Martin didn’t believe him, didn’t want to believe him. His father wasn’t sorry – he was just old, desperate and alone. That was why he begged. And Martin felt disdainful of him in a way he hadn’t been aware of before.

 _Mother wouldn’t pretend remorse. Mother wouldn’t crouch before me and whimper_. Martin wished he could have talked to her instead. At least she would have given him a fight. At least he could have asked her – _why? How could you treat me like that?_ He could accuse his father of nothing. His father had done _nothing_.

There was a rustle of paper and then a scraping noise. Martin’s father had grabbed a notepad and a pencil from his bedside table and scribbled something down before he ripped the slip of paper off and held it to Martin. “This is my address for now. We have a working telephone in the house. You can… contact me if you want to. If there’s time. I’ll be out of here soon and…”

Martin turned on his heels without taking the note, marching out. His father called his name after him, but… Martin didn’t have anything to say to him.

Outside, between ruins and smoke, he finally could ease up the clench of his fists. His skin had gotten dry and cracked easily – each palm showed a row of four small, bleeding crescents.

* * *

Fortunately, he could throw himself back into work at Charité and exile the wondering about his parents to a distant corner of his mind. _Why does he not know whether she’ll come back? Why has he aged so much? Has mother ever asked about me? Has she read my letter, too? Did he not answer because of her?_ A bunch of dumb questions that wouldn’t get him anywhere.

 _Don’t remember_.

Martin wasn’t sure if he’d even been scheduled for the night shift, but time continued to lose its meaning anyway. The OR was permanently manned, although the hustle of the day had subsided a bit. The head nurse was unendingly completing files so everyone who didn’t strictly need stationary treatment could be discharged as soon as possible. Or given to the pathologists who were already complaining about the occupancy rate. Still, a lot of people required artificial respiration after the fires, and there was no shortage of burns, contusions and abrasions to take care of.

Eventually, Hansen and Wagner passed the bunker to Jung and Sauerbruch. Nurses Angelika and Charlotte teetered out of the OR, too, and up to the abandoned second floor to sleep because they weren’t for the life of them capable to read anesthetics scales or control blood pressures anymore.

Martin had just disposed of what felt like the hundredth load of bandages, was done distributing antibiotics on the ward and was back in the old OR that only served the purpose of storage now, cleansing and tidying up instruments. However, he winced mightily when the door was tossed open. Dammit, why were people always so _loud_ around here?

“Try and be a bit more quiet, will you? It’s in the middle of the night!” he snapped at Herrn Heim who just put down a box with antiseptic in the corner.

Heim frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

Martin followed his glance to the window. The layer of smoke was still shadowing the city, but outside had indeed become brighter, vaguely calling morning to mind. “Oh,” he murmured. Otto would worry about him…

He winced again when Heim tapped his shoulder. How long had he been standing right next to him?

Herr Heim gave him an odd look. “Not meaning to nag, but you’ve been polishing this hemostat for two minutes. Still not clean?”

Martin looked at the instrument in his hand. He could have sworn it was a pair of tweezers. With a hum, he set it aside.

Heim pointed at the table. “You need to show me the leg.”

Obediently, Martin sat down and pulled up his trousers leg, although he said: “It’s perfectly fine.” Yet his knee felt terribly raw when Heim loosened the prosthesis.

Heim scoffed and furrowed his eyebrows as he caught sight of the stump; then he pulled a thermos bottle from the pocket of his coat, poured some of the content into the cap and handed it to Martin. “Here. Just imagine the caffeine; might help.”

Martin was too tired to refuse, so he drank instead. It was acorn coffee, awful stuff, but at least it was warm. “Thanks.”

Heim nodded while eyeing the prosthesis. “Laura gave me a right dressing-down because I dragged you into the fire with the wooden leg. Seems to be fine, though.”

With a shrug, Martin set the empty thermos cap aside. “Said so.” If anything, he should have been worried about his lungs after the firefighting, shouldn’t he? He hadn’t paid the wooden leg much mind.

“And what’s _that_?” Heim pointed reproachingly at his sore stump.

For a moment, Martin allowed his eyes to fall shut before he opened them again forcefully. “I’ve been on my feet for a while,” he explained to the looming threat of a prosthesis engineer before him.

“How long have you been up?” Heim demanded, sounding suspicious now.

Martin glimpsed at his watch. Half past nine. When had he gotten up, just in time for the air raid? “Twenty-three hours.”

A few seconds passed in silence. Martin felt Heim’s gaze lingering on him. Then a sigh. “Alright, that’s enough. Get yourself to the workshop; I’ll inform the head tyrant.” He shoved the prosthesis back on Martin’s knee and tied it up, never mind that Martin could do that just fine on his own, _thank you very much_. “I got my night’s sleep and I’ll be helping on the ward, so you should have your peace up there,” he added and firmly pointed at the door.

Martin pondered objecting, but Heim was, if not a doctor, still his senior, and it was kind of sensible that he didn’t trust Martin to set injections anymore. Or, heaven forbid, to assist in the OR.

Staggering a bit, Martin made his way upstairs – not to the workshop, of course, but to the attic. Or he would have made it to the attic if not for the absence of the ladder.

With a sigh, he collected two bits of debris from the hallway, tossed one against the door and then remembered a little too late that Otto or Anni would not react before the second. So, he did throw that, too – just in that moment when the door creaked, followed by the usual metal clang and a startled intake of breath.

“That was almost a direct hit, my dear,” Otto said as he looked down to him.

“Shit,” Martin mumbled. Apparently, he was further gone than he’d realized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Otto shrugged it off, grinning. “Wait, I’ll be back in a second.” Shortly after, he shoved the ladder down. “Sorry, I forgot. I was working at the roof.”

Martin scrambled up to him, a laborious effort. Otto greeted him with a smile; he seemed to be alright for now.

Or he was back at pretending the good mood. Hopefully not.

Martin pulled him in for a hug, his stubble scratching on Otto’s smooth cheek. For some reason, Otto was near always perfectly shaved, freshly washed and dressed in clean clothes in all his time up in the attic. Martin didn’t really know why it was so important to him – he was pretty sure it wasn’t vanity; it was not like Otto needed that.

“You smell nice,” he noted and nuzzled to Otto’s neck that had a faint scent of carbolic soap on it.

Otto laughed. “I’d like to say the same, but that would be a lie.” He still embraced Martin tightly for a moment before nudging him towards the door and gripping the ladder.

Martin went to the living area, tousling Karin’s hair as he passed her. “Hello, _Mausi_.”

Karin gave him a brief glance before deciding that he wasn’t worth her attention right now.

Soon, Otto was back with him and directed him to the bed, squatting down to take off Martin’s shoes while Martin struggled with coat and tie. “Could you sleep?”

“For a few hours,” Otto said. “Unlike you. You could have taken a break sometime; you look like a corpse.”

“Had stuff to do,” Martin muttered.

Otto looked up. His expression got softer. “I know. Come here.” He dragged Martin to his feet so he could help him get rid of the trousers.

Martin let him, but he still commented: “Not in front of the child.”

“Ass,” Otto replied wryly.

“No, not that in front of the child, either,” Martin retorted, which got a chuckle out of Otto before he shoved Martin onto the bed to take off the prosthesis and cover him with a blanket.

“Did you eat something?” he wanted to know.

Martin pondered the question. Had he? “Laura brought me a sandwich. You?”

“Some of Karin’s bread pulp.” Otto climbed into bed with him, pulling Martin’s back to his chest and stroking his arm. Martin’s eyes fell shut already.

“I talked to my father yesterday,” he said nonetheless.

Otto faltered. Then he continued caressing Martin, always repeating the same motion, from his shoulder to his elbow. “Was it very bad?”

“It wasn’t great,” Martin admitted, sighing. He was so horrendously tired, but… “I promised we could talk.”

“We can.” Otto kissed his cheek. “Later.”

“We will,” Martin insisted.

“I know, my dear. Now, sleep. I’ll wake you up later when food’s ready.”

Martin blinked, looking at Karin for a moment who in turn looked intently up at the shelf. In the dark upper compartment, a pair of yellow marbles gleamed. They had pupils, too. Martin shut his eyes again. “Otto?”

Otto nestled closer to him. “Hm?”

“Am I hallucinating or is there an animal on the laundry shelf?”

“Not one, five,” Otto reported, entirely unperturbed. “That cat was running from the fire, came in here and had a litter of babies. Karin was over the moon; she wanted to take one. So the cat whacked her and they howled at each other for ten minutes.”

Ah. Perhaps that was why Karin watched the shelf so warily.

“I think they have a truce now,” Otto said. His hand had made its way to Martin’s hair. “Not a bad thing, I think. Snow White can catch mice here.”

Martin glimpsed at the shelf one last time. He wanted to ask Otto why he would name a jet-black cat – who glared like the evil queen incarnate and had obviously not seven little ones – Snow White, but before he could, he’d fallen asleep.

* * *

When he woke up at last, the sun had already set again. The paraffin lamps shed their light on a quietly simmering pot on the cooker, on Karin who was highly focused on stacking wooden blocks, and on Otto who sat before the bed, sewing something. But he seemed to have noticed Martin’s stirring as he reached up to squeeze his hand briefly.

Martin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What time is it?”

“About half past six,” Otto said and continued his needlework.

Martin almost fell out of the bed. “What? Why didn’t you wake me up? Down on the ward…”

“Anni went and asked; they’re expecting you back for the regular night shift, at eleven,” Otto interrupted his panic.

That gave Martin a baffled pause. “Anni was here?” He hadn’t heard a thing. Usually, he was a light sleeper. It had to be true, though – there was a basket next to Otto that hadn’t been there before, full of garments; only Anni could have brought it up here. “What’s with that?”

Otto shrugged. “She brought me these. She said if I want to do something, I can help mending the clothes of the patients.”

“Oh,” Martin managed to say and quickly searched for his own clothing to hide his blushing face – there was a nasty reminder of his stupid housewife comment.

And Otto didn’t appear too happy, either, although he diligently took to the new task. “Next she was preaching me a sermon that I shouldn’t feed the cat.” He huffed. “I don’t think Snow White likes lentil stew.”

“Did you have a fight?” Martin asked, unsure if he should. On the one hand, quarrels between the siblings were not his business, but on the other, he couldn’t estimate all that accurately how well or not well Otto was as of recently.

“Oh – Karin intervened,” Otto said while cutting off a thread.

The way his mouth curled on that was the hint Martin needed. That wasn’t a sign of an actual bad mood – Otto looked just plain _sulky_.

Martin raised an eyebrow.

Otto noticed. “She said _‘Mama’_ ,” he explained.

That… shed light on one thing and also on another. “You know,” Martin said and tried very hard not to grin, “a ‘T’ is a pretty difficult sound for such a small child to make…”

“I knooow!” Otto groused, giving up on the attempt to hide his pout. Martin evaded his gaze and promptly got a scrunched-up shirt chucked at his head. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m not laughing!” Martin protested, a really bad lie.

Now Otto laughed, too, and got up to look after the stew. “If you carry on being such an ass, I’ll go back to Allgäu,” he threatened.

“I’ll run after you as soon as the trains are back in order,” Martin promised and gave him a few plates – the bowls had been broken during the raid.

“You’ll run after me? Zu mia dahoam, wo du niemande verstähe kosch? Des glaub i fei itta!” With that, Otto handed him the full plates back and went to catch Karin.

Martin sat on the bed’s edge and watched Otto as he swung a gleefully squealing Karin around in a circle and laughed as he did, just laughed because he wanted to make people around him feel good, even when he couldn’t be all that well himself. God, Martin loved this man.

They’d manage somehow. Even with the war and the scant food and the hiding and everything, working overtimes and having nightmares. Because Otto was his family, not that old man in Friedrichshain who had only ever been good for silence.

Otto sat with him, pressing to his side, and began to feed Karin.

Martin stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of lentils, swallowed. Then he asked: “May I tell you about my father?”

Otto caught his gaze and smiled. “Yes. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the kittens aren't plot-relevant at all. I just wanted something fluffy because the last chapter triplet was not exactly light. It's my fanfic, and I'll have cat content if I want to. 
> 
> Also, as you may have noticed, I've set a chapter number and we're getting close to the home stretch. Three more chapters to go and an epilogue; will probably be finished sometime in January. 
> 
> Otto's Bavarian translates to:  
>  _"To my home, where you can't understand anyone? I don't think so!"_
> 
> I want to take this chance to thank the owner of the tumblr account who called my sweet Otto a "gay himbo soon to be surgeon". Yes. Yes, that's exactly what he is. You, Sir / Madam / Highness, are a lovely person and have made my day. 
> 
> And if any of my readers feel like helping me out, perhaps share this link for me: https://www.betterplace.me/umzug-in-der-corona-krise


	22. For tomorrow we shall die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Eat, drink, and be merry..._
> 
> Say what you will, Second Christmas Day is still Christmas to me, so here's my only mildly belated gift and I hope y'all have a lovely time. 
> 
> There's a small smut scene, so you might want to skip once Karin's asleep, but we go on with the un-smutty stuff after the last separation line.

The entry door was tossed open with a bang, making Martin and the other nurses flinch. In stomped Sauerbruch with the sort of expression that preceded a murder. “If I don’t have my first patient down in the bunker in half an hour, the person responsible will go to the front!” he hollered. “We have work to do, goddammit! If anyone wants to play soldier, just tell me; we can arrange that!” He rushed into the nurses’ room and slammed the door shut.

Shortly after, it was opened again, and Head Nurse Elisabeth hasted out, a folder in her hand and a frown on her face. “Martin, Angelika!” she called. “Is Rösner ready? Bring him over,” and in a more hushed voice, she added: “Before the old man tests his scalpel work on me.”

Obediently, Martin and Angelika went to get the patient, albeit Angelika not without rolling her eyes. “What are those asses up to now?”

Martin didn’t answer. Rumor had it that Goebbels was distributing extra rations in Berlin, which didn’t fit either the current supply situation or the morale altogether. That didn’t bode well.

Only ten days after the severe attack in early February, Dresden had been bombed to debris; two weeks later it was Berlin again. Since March, one blow followed another. The last US air raid had been about a week ago, the last of the Tommies was only a couple days past. Martin had sat it out with Otto in the attic – Otto had become a little jumpy after that one time Artur had followed Anni and almost found the way up to the roof. There were new horror news each day, Martin didn’t have any stolen goods left for the black market, Otto was still losing weight, and there was _still not a word of surrender_.

When he and Angelika shoved Herrn Rösner – who was already dozing off into narcosis – out of the house, they met Yrsa von Leistner. The bomb lass, the artist, the madwoman that had showed up a few weeks ago. She greeted Martin with her usual, inapplicably cheerful smile. “Martin, Nurse Angelika – have you seen Herrn Geheimrat?”

“Nurses’ room,” Martin informed her.

“He’s not one for sour cherries today,” Angelika added a warning.

Yrsa beamed. “Wonderful; I’m not a cherry friend, either.” With that, she went inside.

Angelika shook her head. “Weirdo. Charlotte says she and Sauerbruch are sweet on each other, or they wouldn’t endure one another.”

Martin shrugged. He didn’t care much for the gossip. Mostly because Sauerbruch adored his wife, but also because Yrsa was so unapologetically _wacky_. Indeed, Martin had found her very uncomfortable company the first time around. She always seemed to know things she had no business knowing.

“Can you read minds?” he’d asked her eventually in irritation.

Yrsa had laughed while spreading her tools over a table in the old OR. “Of course not,” she had assured. “I’m reading _auras_.”

For some strange reason, she and Sauerbruch were still a match made in heaven. Every now and then, Martin saw them standing together, smoking and talking, and if Sauerbruch’s schedule hadn’t been so busy, they probably would have talked for hours on end.

“Perhaps she can get him a bit off of his fit,” he said. “Or we can use Sauerbruch as the next anti-tank weapon.”

Angelika scoffed and waved the guards by the bunker to open the door. They had to maneuver the stretcher past suitcases and a few rolled-up mattresses in the hallway – the Sauerbruchs had begun to get domestic here a few days ago when they’d received word from the defeat by the Oder.

When Sauerbruch joined them in the bunker soon after, he didn’t appear to be quite so close to an explosion, although still obviously upset. “Martin!” he barked, the name enough of an order, an Martin hurried to help him with the coat.

Just when he put the close-sight glasses on the professor, Sauerbruch said: “It’s been decided. There will be a battle.”

Martin froze mid-movement. “ _Here_?”

That couldn’t be right. That shouldn’t be right. It made no sense. If the Soviets had surrounded Berlin, there was no army left; who should fight a battle here?

Sauerbruch straightened his glasses and grabbed for his gloves. Nodded. “The Army Command won’t hand the city over without a fight.”

The _Army Command_? Did they have _any_ say left in the matter? “That blasted nutcase–” Martin spluttered, his disbelief already flipping to rage.

Sauerbruch’s fingers clawed at his arm. “Be quiet, dammit!” he hissed. “Do you want them to hear you?” His head jerked towards the guardsmen. “We have to keep Charité running somehow. One of those morons just held a speech about the defense of the city; they want us to support the _Volkssturm_ , but that won’t do. We’ll keep up business until the roof crashes down on us. So, listen here…”

* * *

A strange, resigned numbness accompanied Martin when he and Angelika left the bunker and went to the other nurses in the courtyard. The Sauerbruchs were busy with surgery, but most of the ward’s staff had come together to take instructions for the attack from a few SS men. Interrupting work in the middle of the day in their situation was idiocy, and Martin could see the head nurse muttering curses to herself as each of them was handed an armful of linen bags.

Two uniformed men rolled several bales of straw and hay off of a transporter’s loading bay. “The buildings have to be protected as well as possible,” a third man explained. “We don’t have much time, and the blasts are to be cushioned as well as can be – not for your sake alone, but most of all to protect your comrades…”

And so on and so forth. Martin swallowed an exasperated noise and ignored the babbling as they went about stuffing the bags. He already thought they’d had the worst of it when the officers exchanged a few words and then hopped onto the transporter and rode off, but that only meant that Christel picked up the torch. Angelika gave Martin another load of hay and visibly rolled her eyes.

“If the enemy airdrops troops or makes a breach with tanks, there’ll be enemy alert – that’s five minutes of continual wailing,” Christel preached as she was sewing straw bags with twitchy movements. Head Nurse Elisabeth, doing the same thing a meter away from her, passed her an exhausted glance, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Who’s going to wail continually?” Martin asked wryly – he couldn’t take the palaver seriously. “We’ve got _StJ_ , don’t we? Strength through jitters.”

Christel’s head jolted up; she glared at him with narrow eyes. “If I were a man, I’d shut your damn mouth for you!” she snapped. “Others are giving their lives in this moment to save us.”

 _They’re giving their lives for nothing_ , Martin thought indifferently. The war had been lost months ago. It wasn’t even depressing now. It was just ridiculous.

Of course, that didn’t bother Christel. “The liberating attack of General Wenck will begin anytime now!” she assured her fellow nurses.

The nonsense was grinding Martin’s nerves. “With the miracle weapon of your beloved _Führer_ ,” he sneered.

“On whom _you_ swore an oath as well!” Christel’s voice was almost screeching and she pointed an accusing finger at Martin.

Martin thought of his oath, a few words he’d rattled off together with other eighteen-year-old conscripts, meaningless to him even then and now a lifetime away. The _Führer_? A face on posters. A far-off, vague figure whose voice droned from the radios sometimes. The people Martin had shot were more real to him. The pendant at his throat was real, Otto was real, the concerns about Karin, the worries he shared with Anni. The hospital was real and his obligations towards his patients, and so were Sauerbruch’s adamant orders. The _Führer_ … that was like a tale he’d been told from when he was a child onwards. Martin’s oath was worthless. Now, what would Christel have said to that sort of thinking?

Unfortunately, she liked her slogans better than yelling at him. “Where there’s the _Führer_ , there’s victory.”

Anna and Laura exchanged a skeptical glimpse; Charlotte looked at Mathilde who kept her eyes on her hay bundle but couldn’t hide her frown.

Christel had to have noticed it this time; her voice was defiant as she proclaimed: “Even if the Russians charge the inner front of Berlin with all their strength, our forces are on them already!”

Martin hauled the next bag of straw up to her so she could sew it shut, but mostly so he could scowl at her. “Quit blaring the _Wochenschau_ at us,” he growled.

Instead of finally shutting up, Christel held his gaze. Her eyes were aglow, her mouth formed a peculiar smile. “We will prove more fortitude,” she said.

It was that combination that made Martin falter, the tone, the smile. The frantic expression in her eyes. For the first time, he thought that there was something about her that was really _not right_ anymore. Christel had always been a reason for anger and hostility for him. Now he felt a stir of insecurity and of something that could have almost been pity. She _believed_ it, _really_ believed it, even now – had to believe it so she wouldn’t break asunder.

Martin turned away. He wasn’t sympathetic enough to feel genuinely sorry for _her_ of all people and not enough of a sadist to enjoy watching her unravel before his eyes.

* * *

They’d managed most of the house’s façade, the ground floor’s windows hidden behind walls of straw bags, when the transporter drove back into the courtyard. It didn’t bring hay and straw now. Martin grimly eyed the flat wooden crates on the loading bay.

The car stopped next to them; one of the SS officers from earlier – Martin didn’t remember the name – jumped out briskly and called them over. Herr Heim and Herr Ruppert had come outside now, too, and so had Dr. Hansen. The latter took a disinterested look at the crates as they were brought to them; then she leaned to the wall with her arms crossed.

Martin flopped down on the rest of a hay bale, giving Laura some space next to himself and getting ready to ignore some more. The _Panzerfaust_ had only been developed in its current form after his time in the army, but he didn’t plan to shoot tanks, anyway.

Idly, he observed the faces around him. Several levels of exasperation, bitterness and anger were written on them. Head Nurse Elisabeth kept looking to the ward; she wanted to get back to work. Nurse Mathilde looked ready to cry, the doctors looked just annoyed. And he could have sworn that Heim was rolling his eyes when the officers went around to hand out a _Panzerfaust_ to each person present.

Martin saw Christel taking hers and grabbing it like a precious trophy. Then he looked at the thing on his lap. He hadn’t been using a weapon in four years. He wouldn’t start now.

The SS officer’s voice was grating his ears. “…will uphold the city! Our loyalty to the _Führer_ will be rewarded with victory! Our efforts may be high, but the triumph over our enemies will be so much greater!”

 _Triumph?_ For some reason, that word was too much all of a sudden – Martin had to react, or he’d explode. He could laugh, cry or throw a fit of rage.

The officers stared at him in dismay when the chuckle burst out of him. Laura lowered her head, quickly biting her lower lip.

Christel looked like she’d shoot him any second now. “Do you think that’s funny?” she asked in a shrill tone.

Martin looked up, looked at Christel. And laughed right in her face. “I think it’s hilarious,” he told her upfront and gave her his _Panzerfaust_. “Happy _Führer_ ’s birthday!”

Angelika considered her weapon for a second, then set it aside resolutely. “Martin is right,” she said. “That’s lunacy. We’re nurses, not soldiers.”

More exchanged glances. The spokesman among the SS team opened his mouth, then shut it again without having said a word.

Martin stood up. This was as good a time as any to pass on the orders that were actually important. “Sauerbruch sends his regards,” he said as benignly as he could manage. “If any of you tries to enter the bunker with a _Panzerfaust_ , I am permitted to bash your skulls with it.”

Laura knelt down before the next crate, neatly putting away her _Panzerfaust_. Then she got Angelika’s, Charlotte’s, Anna’s. “For the _Volkssturm_ ,” she said to the SS men eventually when all the weapons were stashed away and the lids closed. Only Mathilde and Christel still had theirs, standing by and struggling, one with tears, the other with a tantrum.

The officer that had given them their instructions paced to Laura and looked down on her menacingly. “So, in this hour of greatest distress, you deny obedience to your _Führer_ and the service to your country, did I understand you right?”

He made a hasty step back when Heim towered up behind Laura, a hand’s breadth taller than the officer and measuring him a scathing glare. “You can sort that out with the _Generalarzt_ ,” he said coolly, his hand on Laura’s shoulder.

Martin looked at the head nurse who waved to him – he could leave and go back to work, which he did. He didn’t look back to see the others’ further doings, but a few minutes later, almost all nurses were back on the ward, including Nurse Mathilde – without a _Panzerfaust_.

* * *

To the annoyance of the SS – and to the malicious joy of Head Nurse Elisabeth – the extra rations for the hospital staff had already been delivered. Dr. Sauerbruch had acted quickly, arranging the distribution for the midday break, insubordination or not. Martin wasn’t even sure if their behavior was insubordination; after all, their commander was Sauerbruch.

In quiet incredulity, he looked through the paper bag he’d been given. A can of peas and carrots, a bundle of beans, a package of flour, an entire kilogram sugar, bread, meat, butter, coffee substitute… even goddamn _coffee_. Martin hadn’t drunk real coffee in years.

“Swap?” Laura asked and held a mug of curd to him. “I still have milk; I need something to bite for Rudolf. He’s hardly getting more than porridge on the pediatric ward.”

Martin gave her the bread for it – dairy products were always good for Karin. “Fancy last meals,” he muttered nonetheless. Goebbels had even treated the hospital to a few bottles of wine, for heaven’s sake…

Laura shrugged. “I don’t know. Surely, the Russians will like to keep a few people around to patch up their soldiers; they won’t attack a hospital.”

 _Wishful thinking_ , Martin thought sardonically as he walked to the old OR. His leg tapped the usual steady rhythm on the floor, echoing uncomfortably in the empty hallway.

He’d hoped to find Anni here; she often met up with him during the breaks to take his days’ acquisitions – her working hours ended earlier than his more often than not and he felt better knowing that Otto could eat as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t there. The pediatricians were probably being preached a sermon at, too. Martin couldn’t go upstairs now, though; he had to get some more petroleum from his trading partner before the streets were barred entirely. The _Volkssturm_ was building blockades everywhere. And spreading a mood Martin would rather avoid.

Just when he’d hid his stocks away in a cabinet, Yrsa strolled into the room that served her as a studio, smiling blithely.

Martin felt sort of caught out, even though he hadn’t done anything illicit right now. “Do you mind…?”

Yrsa shrugged it off. “Just leave it there; it won’t get lost. I have my own portion.” She grinned merrily. “And I have fewer mouths to feed than you do.”

Martin dropped his head to his chest, feeling weary. Since the day he’d met that madwoman, he’d never quite understood her. He didn’t now, either, didn’t understand the flair of omniscience, the brightly colored dress that didn’t fit the dreary surroundings, the quiet joy with which she went to work.

“What a beautiful place,” she’d said when she had first come here. Martin couldn’t even really deny that. Even empty, the OR still retained some of it’s appeal, light flooding through the tall windows, even though they were cracked now, the barricaded tiers on the sides waiting to be filled again with students eager to learn.

What he couldn’t understand was how she was still able to _see_ it. “Why aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “Now of all times…”

If Yrsa had been surprised by the question, she didn’t let it on. “Oh – but _now_ fear isn’t worth it anymore, anyway.”

* * *

Black market prices had inflated, Martin thought morosely when he gave his bargainer three perfectly maintained sheets – for all of a liter paraffin. Otto had covered the bed in the moth-eaten blankets that had hung over the panorama window. Now, the window was tarped with newspapers instead.

“You can have a few candles,” Martin’s trading partner said and handed him four in a semblance of what he probably thought was generosity. Martin bit away the comment that he had not much use for candles – they needed cooked meals, not light. Months ago, they had stopped sleeping with the lights on, which neither he nor Otto liked especially.

Otto’s mood was… erratic. There were days when Martin could see how incredibly tiring it was for him to hold up a conversation. Another time, he was over his thesis or the needlework with a right good will. Next, he hardly got out of bed all day. The nightmares didn’t help.

With a sigh, Martin leaned back, watching Rainer bargaining for his own part. In early April, he’d asked for help because he couldn’t feed his family all they needed, and since then, Martin took him along to the black market.

At least spring weather had set in – they didn’t have coals left, and Martin didn’t dare to go into the parks to steal firewood anymore now that the _Volkssturm_ spread such an apocalyptic atmosphere. Issue of cold, solved. Issue of hunger, solved – for now. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more air raids; the Soviet wouldn’t be glad if they marched into the city and were bombed by the Tommies on the way.

“And that should be it, then, shouldn’t it?” Rainer asked, both nervously and full of hope, while they walked the streets, circumventing a barricade here and a dispute there, a _Volkssturm_ unit in conflict with a bunch of residents who were sitting in front of their house drinking and bawling songs. “What would the Russians want from the civilians? Good grief…”

The fight had escalated; an adolescent whose insignia marked him as a _Volkssturm_ group leader had attacked an elderly man who clubbed him with an empty beer bottle. The bystanders were jeering, notwithstanding the weapons the rest of the unit had drawn.

Martin huffed, seized Rainer’s sleeve and dragged him along. “If they find all of Berlin plastered, they should be quick to fraternize.”

Rainer laughed. “Drinking is only half of it…” He pointed to a young couple in a fervent embrace, standing under the canopy of a house’s front door and kissing, oblivious to the world. A rifle leaned to the wall next to them – the boy had probably already been drafted.

They were nowhere near the first lovebirds Martin had met these days. Just when he’d left Charité earlier, a girl of about fifteen years had almost run into him, face flushed and hair tousled, adjusting her skirt as she walked by trying to look casual. Martin wasn’t sure, but it could have been Veronika who’d once fancied Otto so badly.

Now she’d left a woozy but rather delighted-looking lad behind by the docks, and when Martin had passed him, he’d barely held back from pointing out the hickey on the boy’s neck. It could all have been rather funny if not everyone involved had known of the inherent tragedy of the situation.

“It has to end somehow, somehow,” Rainer mumbled, his thoughts far away. “It’s nothing left, you see? The Amis have Magdeburg and, I think, also Leipzig. The French are marching through Baden-Württemberg…”

Martin nodded. There hadn’t been mail from the south since February; Otto was worried about his mother. “They won’t have a bone to pick with you,” he said trying to sound consoling. “You’re not serving anymore.”

Rainer dodged his gaze. “Right.” He was hardly audible.

And then he suddenly started talking about his little son, how he grew, what a fast learner he was, how happy Birgit was that the baby was already beginning to smile… Martin pricked up his ears. That sounded just like Otto when he was frenetically trying to talk over his emotional pits.

When they walked by the street to the government quarter that Rainer should have taken to get to his office but ignored entirely, Martin asked eventually: “What’s going on?”

Rainer stood still. Looked around himself, watched the unit that crossed the bridge down the street. “I’m… I’m not expected back at work today,” he said. “There’s nothing today. Not really, I mean…” He ran both hands through his hair, the real one and the prosthesis. “Since the order yesterday… they started to burn everything.”

Martin stared at him without comprehending. “Burn what?”

“The files!” Rainer exclaimed in despair. “My boss got order… Do you know we’ve been storing records on Sachsenhausen? Hundreds of files? On SS activities? On camps in Poland, on the Balkans?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I didn’t know, either. Last evening, they began to bring them all out to the yard and set them ablaze. So nothing will be left when the Allied are getting here.” Another pull at his hair. The next sentence had his voice cracking. “They’re destroying _evidence_ , Martin, do you understand?”

Yes, now he understood. The camps, the deported. The people who had just disappeared. Jews, gypsies, 175s. The missing patients, Bernburg, Sonnenstein, Hartheim. Hans von Dohnanyi and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Hans had been working on this over years, diligently collecting what was needed to file a lawsuit.

Which wouldn’t happen. Thousands of people would feign ignorance, would put on an innocent look, and there’d be nothing that would prove them guilty.

“I don’t even know…” Rainer was still talking. “Sachsenhausen – there are people even now, aren’t they? What’s the fuss good for when the prisoners will make their statements anyway?

Martin didn’t look at him. Rainer was shutting himself off to a very obvious fact, didn’t want to see what was plain blatant.

People who were destroying evidence would get rid of their witnesses as well.

Rainer looked around again, still nervous, fumbling on his artificial hand with the healthy one. “I have to go. Birgit is waiting,” he said. The _Volkssturm_ squads seemed to frighten him, now that he had worded his thoughts. He patted Martin’s shoulder. “Remain,” he wished him; then he lowered his head, drew his hat down his forehead and hunched his shoulders up, burrowing hands in his pockets as he hurried off.

Martin nodded dazedly. “Remain,” he murmured and set out to walk home. _Sachsenhausen_. Something inside him that he had tried very hard to forget had been torn open and hurt. Sachsenhausen, where Theo had died, or maybe not. He had hoped once in a while… hoped against all reason…

 _Records on Sachsenhausen – all burned down. Deleting evidence_.

He hadn’t believed in Theo’s survival, not really. But some part of him had held onto the possibility that, one day, he’d learn when Theo had died, where he had been buried. _What happened to him_. Theodor Berner, a name, a brief trial, then only a number on a paper. Which had been eaten by flames today.

Martin felt dizzy. It shouldn’t have hurt like this, the realization that he wouldn’t ever find out. But it almost brought him to his knees. This last, miserable hope he’d had left… gone, disposed of, scorched. _No proof left_. God, he had to get home. He wanted to see Otto, cling to him and cry forever.

* * *

When he came to Charité, the sun was just setting behind the horizon. Yrsa von Leistner was still up when Martin got his rations from the operation theater, but she didn’t pay him any mind – she was working on that bust, orbiting her work with a critical gaze, shining a lamplight on it from different angles. She had some clay on her cheek and a crockery pin clamped between her teeth.

The sight made Martin smile a little bit. “Good night,” he said to her. Yrsa waved her hand impatiently, like chasing away a fly, and Martin left her alone.

The way upstairs didn’t offer many more chances to wallow in bleak thoughts – there were voices sounding from the hallway that led to Sauerbruch’s office, loud despite the wood of a door muffling them. Martin frowned, already considering having a look.

But for the second time that day, a door crashed open and had a furious Sauerbruch emerging, on the heels of a man in SS uniform who ducked away from him. Sauerbruch bludgeoned him with a file folder and roared: “Is it still not _enough_? You blithering moron, what do you _want_ yet? _What do you want?_ When is the madness done, when will you be done, _when will you be done?_ ”

The officer stumbled out of his arm’s reach, which prompted the professor to chuck the folder at his head before he stood there ringing for air.

“You…” the SS man stammered. “You cannot… you have… you…” But he didn’t dare come closer again. Helplessly, he looked around on the dimly-lit hallway, discovered Martin who quickly pulled his glasses off his nose. “You!” The man pointed at him. “You have seen that! I want you to give statement at the precinct.”

Martin looked at him with narrow eyes, blinking owlishly and rubbing the glasses on the lapel of his jacket. “Seen what? I was cleaning my glasses; I’m blind like a mole without them,” he said in the best idiot tone he could manage, which was still not devoid of scorn.

The SS officer gasped. “That’s an outrageous effrontery!” he postulated loudly.

Sauerbruch stuffed both hands into the pockets of his coat and stepped to the window. Martin looked at the officer and shrugged. This hysteric, laughable person didn’t scare him.

Seething with rage, the man rushed off, stomping on the stairs like a toddler throwing a fit.

Martin put his glasses back on and cautiously glimpsed at his boss. He’d covered the lower half of his face with his hand, sniffing. Martin’s heart sank. Was Sauerbruch _crying_?

“You’re not one to tattle,” the professor croaked.

“Blind like a mole, boss,” Martin insisted. “And all but deaf, after all the air raid alarms.”

Sauerbruch scoffed without a trace of humor. He nodded, turned over and left, not for the bunker, but in the direction of the old OR.

Martin walked to the workshop meanwhile; he wanted to get a fresh shirt from his things for tomorrow before he went to Otto and Karin.

He opened the door to the prosthesis workshop, set a foot into the room – and faltered. Was there someone in the storage room? Seemed like it, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying… because nobody articulated anything, he realized a split second later; an obviously female voice sighed, long and blissfully, and an uninhibited male moan followed.

 _Oh, for_ … Martin recoiled, turned on his heels, shut the door as quietly as possible and made a run for it. _Is there anyone in this city left in their right mind?_

Upstairs, he was greeted by hushed music from the radio and found Otto and Karin surrounded by a litter of kittens – by now, Snow White had gotten used enough to the company to tolerate their proximity. Karin was caressing the little furry bundle in Otto’s hands that was trying to eat the latter’s finger.

“I’m glad you got out of the habit when you got teeth,” Otto said to Karin, and Karin repeated happily: “’eeth.”

Then she looked up, beaming at Martin and pointing to the kitten that Otto held. “Maa’di,” she explained.

Martin cowered down by Otto’s side. “Should I question that you’re naming a cat for me?” he asked.

“I need something to cuddle,” Otto replied and kissed him. His smile wasn’t that of bubbling joy, but it was genuine and helped lightening up the lump in Martin’s throat a bit.

Unfortunately, Otto was as sensitive to Martin’s moods as Martin was to his. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of an answer, Martin gave him his rationing of food. “Supplies. Extra treats, from Goebbels.”

Otto looked through the contents of the paper bag, raising an eyebrow upon the sight of coffee and wine; then he frowned at Martin, a question in his eyes.

Martin took a deep breath. “Those are final meals. Berlin is a stronghold now, the Russians are here. And they will fight. To the last damn man.”

Otto looked at him. Martin took his hand, squeezing it. There was no way to sugarcoat this.

Finally, Otto asked quietly: “Sind die völlig _depperd_?” Then he tensed, his hands grabbed for Martin’s arms. “Martin – Martin, you won’t fight…” All of a sudden, he sounded urgent, pleading.

Martin quickly hugged him. “No, of course not,” he promised. “Sauerbruch said no.” He felt Otto exhale on his shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They were sitting like that for a while until Karin toddled to them and tugged at Otto’s shirt, unsure as to what was going on. It seemed to calm her when he took her on his arm and smiled. But Martin saw the silent dread on his face. Their home, their shelter, a battlefield now after all.

As he couldn’t change it, he went about unpacking the food instead. “Let’s eat something.”

Otto blinked. “Oh… I still have potatoes from yesterday…”

Martin looked up. He’d gotten to the curd package Laura had traded him. “Give me those, will you?”

Otto handed him the pot. “What are you up to?”

“We’re making curd potato pancakes,” Martin declared. _So what – a last meal can be tasty_.

* * *

Two hours later, they had only a few burning candles left. The cooker was cold, although the sweet smell of curd potato pancakes lingered, and Martin felt somewhat languid from the wine he’d shared with Otto. And while Otto took care of the dishes, Martin brushed Karin’s teeth and then sang her a lullaby – he was better with melodies than Otto was. “Who’s shepherding the cloud sheep? The golden moon at night…”

Karin fell asleep soon, and although Snow White hissed indignantly when Martin exiled her from the bed, she hid away on the shelf with her offspring peacefully.

Otto sat before the bed, resting against Martin’s wooden leg. “How are the knee and the hip?” he wanted to know.

“Alright.” That reply made Otto roll his eyes and take off the prosthesis.

Of course, the overtimes left their marks, but the strange atmosphere in the city had taken its toll on Martin, too. He felt strangely light, as if nothing could reach him at the moment beside Otto’s fingers that drew circles on his skin, searched out the tense muscles above his knee and kneaded them gently.

It would have lulled Martin to sleep, too, but he was not opposed to Otto getting up from the floor, nudging him a bit back on the mattress and straddling Martin’s healthy leg to take his head between both hands and kiss him. He tasted like wine and a bit like sugar, but most of all, he tasted like _Otto_. Martin sighed contently at his mouth, leaving his glasses and shirt to him without protest.

It took them quite a while to get naked – somehow, it seemed more important that they kept kissing, finding each other’s hands, pressing against one another. Eventually, Otto shoved their bundle of clothes down to the floor, just when the last candle gave up, and pulled Martin into his arms, one hand knotted into his hair and one around his back. Martin felt Otto’s teeth on his neck, felt Otto suckling on his skin, just beneath his ear, probably leaving a tender spot that his collar wouldn’t cover tomorrow. _Doesn’t matter_. Who would care? He tilted his head to the side and let Otto do whatever he wanted; it felt so _good_.

Meanwhile, his hands roamed Otto’s chest. His ribs had steadily gotten more noticeable beneath his skin lately; the thought pained Martin each time he hugged Otto. Now however, Otto just replied with a happy, low sound and leaned into Martin’s touch, pushing against his stomach, hard already, but not much interested in alleviating that all too soon. Martin still got a groan out of him as he returned the pressure, squirming against him, and Otto’s hand ran to Martin’s shoulder to hold onto him. Martin kissed him once, twice, a dozen times, laughing at Otto’s huff because he pulled back every time.

A faint, metallic rattle had him perk up, but it was just the door screeching in its hinges – they had to fasten the cover of the roof hole again; there was a draft going through the room from there. The thought disappeared as fast as it had popped up when Otto shifted his free hand down over his stomach and slowly began massaging his cock.

Martin supported himself on his hands, then dropped to his back entirely and dragged Otto on top of himself, searching his gaze. There was something in his eyes, something about the fingers twitching on Martin’s upper arm, gripping tightly for a second. Otto was scared, he realized, scared of tomorrow, scared of letting him go. Martin wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t, that he was here with him and nothing would happen – but Otto’s other hand still continued stroking his cock, so Martin couldn’t get out more than a wordless grunt.

Otto smiled and kissed him, longer this time, a little more insistently than earlier, but still gentle, still with no hurry. Martin held him with one hand around his neck; the other was rummaging between the sheets. There was the damn tin. Martin coated his fingertips in ointment, but with the way Otto was moving on him, he wouldn’t hold out for long; so he just slathered it on the inside of his legs and directed Otto to steer his cock between Martin’s clamped thighs.

Which seemed to be quite enough. Otto gasped and his hips twitched forward, pressing Martin firmly into the mattress. Martin wrapped both arms around his shoulders and joined his motion with his own body, meeting him and succumbing to the sensation, the steady friction, the thrusts that were just the right measure of hard, the hot breath on his skin.

“Martin,” Otto whispered breathlessly. “Martin– _ah_ – my dear, my dearest… mmh…”

His thumb circled the tip of Martin’s cock, rubbed the small slit there – and that got him; Martin quickly pulled Otto on himself to stifle the moan bursting out of him on his mouth as he came.

Otto thrust a few more times, but he didn’t need more than that. Martin squeezed his legs together, listened to Otto’s sigh and held him tightly to himself throughout his climax.

Then Otto rested his forehead on Martin’s; they both panted on the other’s face. Neither of them found a good enough reason to let go of each other. “I…” Otto started, didn’t get far, began anew. “I love you, Martin… I love you.”

Martin caressed Otto’s back, caught his lips for another brief kiss. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Martin woke up as the sun rose, just before 6 a.m. Dim red light crawled in through the roof window and allowed him to discern Otto next to him, still sleeping. There was no sound from Karin’s bed, and the cat was rolled up in her nest on the shelf with her eyes shut as well.

The quiet was unusual, Martin thought. Silence at this time of the day should be normal, but there were no sirens, no distant yelling. No firefighting was to be done and no bombs fell, no gunfights, not yet, although it couldn’t be much longer.

He glanced at Otto. Mostly, he just wanted to stay in bed with him, for a few hours, days, until the war was over. He put a kiss on his temple instead – _I love you, love you so much_ – silently wished him luck for the day, wished himself luck before he got up quietly, got dressed and went to work.

Just when he reached the stairs to the first floor, Herr Heim passed them. He was coming from the workshop and, aside from looking kind of disheveled, he had a much too happy smile on his face that was almost enough to send Martin running. Instead, he waited until Heim was gone – he hadn’t noticed Martin at all. And Martin really, _really_ didn’t want to know the details.

That he wasn’t one to criticize others at the moment became clear as he met Yrsa von Leistner on his way to the bunker, sitting on the front steps with a little package of bread and cheese on her lap and letting the morning sun shine on her face. She glimpsed up when Martin opened the door, examined him briefly – and then she flashed her teeth in a bright, _aware_ smile. Martin blushed immediately. Once again, that woman just seemed to _know_.

“Morning,” he muttered and hoped that he wasn’t as obvious as Herr Heim was.

Yrsa chuckled. “Good morning, indeed.” Her laughter gave Martin the pesky impression that he’d missed a joke – only he was the punchline.

He cleared his throat. “Why are you up already? It’s only six.”

“Oh – my quarters were hit again. A zealous multiple rocket launcher, I think,” Yrsa related unconcernedly and held a bit of her breakfast bread out to Martin.

Martin took it and crouched on the stairs next to her. That had happened to her for the third time. She hadn’t gotten the moniker “bomb lass” for nothing, but, oddly enough, she didn’t care for searching out new quarters. “Losses?” he inquired.

Yrsa shook her head, shut her eyes and turned her face back to the sun. “Nothing of value. And there were no fires in the building; that’s a reason to be grateful, after all.” Another chuckle. “Herr Geheimrat said if the bust gets shot to rubble, the joke’s on me; he won’t pose for me again.”

“If it weren’t for the mask and the bunker being overcrowded, I’d say you should see him in the OR,” Martin said. Sauerbruch was never more in his element than during a surgery.

“Oh, yes, that would be great.” Yrsa sighed. “But I heard the Russians are already at _Landsberger Chaussee_ , so he’ll need all of his thoughts in one place these days. Not that I would know where _Landsberger Chaussee_ is; I know the stars better than Berlin…”

She interrupted herself and opened her eyes when a far crashing noise in the city tore through the silence of the morning. Martin cussed quietly, but Yrsa just smiled her enigmatic smile. “Chin up!” she told him. “The universe has heralded a fresh start. We’ll only need a few more days of patience.”

“I hope you’re right,” Martin said to the madwoman. God, he hoped it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bigger part of the chapter's taking place on the 21st of April 1945. 
> 
> By the way. The faint rattling of the door – that and two silhouettes in the dark are about as close as Anni will ever get to "becoming an involuntary witness to Herrn Schelling's love life". Martin is not the only one who wanted some brain bleach that evening. 
> 
> Read Soncasong's "Big Lipped Alligator Moment" if you haven't yet - in the series, I never really got Yrsa's character; she was kind of badly fit into the plot...? But I love Soncasong's fic. Their lovely take on the character was a huge inspiration to my attempt: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149004 
> 
> Sauerbruch actually did beat an SS officer with a file folder. Which is honestly a lovely image in my mind. 
> 
> And I'm sorry for all the German in this chapter. There's no sensible translation for "Panzerfaust" or "Volkssturm"... and yes, I did translate "KdF" (Kraft durch Freude) because translating only Martin's quip but not the abbreviation he based his cynic comment on looked just plain dumb.  
> Also translated that cherry thing - "not one for sour cherries" is a German way of phrasing; it means someone is very irritable and should better be left alone. I didn't find a wording that carried that over into English like that, so... endure my cross-cultural figures of speech. 
> 
> Otto's Bavarian boils down to: _"Are they completely insane?"_


End file.
